Wolf Trap english version
by Linorea
Summary: After a mission, Newkirk brings at Stalag 13 an English captain he seems to know very well. As a new mission order is send by London, the history and tension between the two men could lead to dramatic consequences.
1. Chapter 1 : An unpleasant encounter

**Hi everyone! This is the English version of my story Wolf Trap. I have to thank SimoneSez who asked me if I wanted help for the translation and who is doing a wonderful job. So thank you again SimoneSez, without you, it would have been impossible. **

**We do not have all the chapters yet but I will update gradually. **

**Disclaimer : Hogan's heroes does not belong to me, obviously. **

**Summary : After a mission, Newkirk brings at Stalag 13 an English captain he seems to know very well. As a new mission order is send by London, the history and tension between the two men could lead to dramatic consequences. **

**Good reading, I hope you will enjoy it. And for those who read it in French, I hope this will be more understandable. **

**Chapter 1**

**An unpleasant encounter**

The night was cold and Corporal Newkirk of the Royal Air Force could not repress a shiver. He had been looking at the starry sky for about an hour, hidden behind a bank. Waiting with him was Sergeant Carter of the US Army Air Corps.

"They're late. I hope they didn't force us to go out for nothing. Do you believe that? Warn us at the last minute! We could have had other plans for tonight, a rendezvous, something!"

Carter, who was stretched out on the wet ground near him, prevented him from continuing to complain by putting a hand on his mouth.

"Shh."

"What Shh? The Englishman grumbled, taking away the American's hand. He added nothing, the sound of an engine drawing his attention towards the stars. He pointed his binoculars towards the sky to verify the origin of the plane.

"It's one of ours. It's about time."

Carter emitted some bright flashes with his flashlight. Almost immediately, two packages were released by the plane. The two men got to their feet and rushed in the direction of the falling object. Suddenly a violent explosion rang out. Both men raised their eyes to realize that a German missile had just reached the English plane.

"Bastards…" Newkirk exchanged a glance with his friend but there was no time for mourning the pilot. Whoever he was, he had achieved his part of the mission. Now, they had to finish it.

Newkirk slowly lifted the lid of the small wooden box to make sure of its contents. Some bars of plastic explosive were arranged side by side and the corporal wondered how much fire power they were going to have with all this. Then, he began to untie the parachute. While he was concentrated on his task, he suddenly felt a cold, metallic object, pressed against the nape of his neck.

He raised his hands without making the slightest gesture to indicate that, whoever was behind him, he had all his cooperation.

"_Ich bin nicht bewaffnet_," Newkirk tried, absolutely certain he was in the presence of a German soldier ready to explode his brain.

Carter chose this moment to reappear, a box, similar to the one that had just found by the Englishman, in his arms.

"I have the detonators," he informed his friend, eyes locked on his package.

"Carter…" Newkirk warned, hoping the German wasn't trigger-happy and especially that he was not covered by a whole regiment.

At his friend's cold voice, the American sergeant raised the head and froze. Newkirk was kneeling down in front of the box containing the explosives promised by London. A revolver was pointed at the back of his skull. Carter could not distinguish the man behind the weapon, the light of the moon being too low, the tree branches stressing the twilight.

"Newkirk?" he asked in a pressing and worried voice, not knowing what he was supposed to do.

"Newkirk?" a voice repeated with an accent which really did not sound German. "Peter Newkirk?"

The corporal shivered when he recognized the voice of the man who was behind him and wished he could be mistaken, that instead the Englishman he recognized could be a German. With a German, at least, he knew how to react.

oOo

"A coffee, Kinch?" the French corporal Louis Lebeau proposed, putting a steaming cup near the radio. Sergeant Kinchloe removed his headset and turned to the small Frenchman. Lebeau, who visibly had a certain dose of caffeine in his veins, could not stay in place, giving worried looks in the direction of the tunnel.

"You brought me some only ten minutes ago. I haven't finished it yet," the American sergeant pointed out to the Frenchman, indicating the cup which was already on the desk. "You don't have to find an excuse to come down here, looking for the boys." He smiled, even if he was worried too. Newkirk and Carter were late, and it was not normal.

"I am not worried," Lebeau denied a little too fast. "But that makes two hours..." he added, not very confident anymore.

"They'll probably come back soon," Kinch tried to reassure him, hoping he was right.

"So?" The voice of their colonel resounded behind them. "The boys aren't back yet?"

The anxiety was easy to read on Hogan's features. Newkirk and Carter had been late before but rarely for a simple mission which did not involve an excursion into town and possible pleasant encounters.

"You know them, Sir," Kinch joked. "They always find a way to do childish things when they are together on a mission."

"Yeah, Andrew probably found a wounded squirrel on the way back. By the time he manages to convince Newkirk to keep it, we won't see them again before morning."

Hogan smiled. A scenario like that was definitely possible and had already happened quite a few times. Not with a squirrel, but it was all the same.

As to contradict this idea, steps resounded in the tunnel. The three men around the radio became silent, on their guard. The colonel seized his weapon, ready to open fire.

The emergence of Newkirk relieved everybody.

"Do you know what time it is?" Lebeau launched at him, releasing the pressure he had been under for too long.

"Sorry mommy, everything didn't happen exactly as expected."

The Englishman's sharp tone surprised Lebeau and the others.

"Something went wrong?" Hogan asked, frowning.

"Oh no, sir. We have the packages if that's the question. With a bonus…"

"How's that?"

Other steps resounded in the tunnel. Newkirk turned in their direction and after having thrown an "ask Carter", forgetting all the respect due to his superior officer, he took the ladder to go back up in the barracks. Running away from the approaching steps.

Lebeau and Kinch exchanged a glance, having a common thought. _A squirrel?_

Answering their unspoken question, Carter walked into the room, a small box in his arms, followed closely by a man who looked nothing like a squirrel. An English officer. And not a low-ranking one according to the four white and black bars decorating his shoulders.

"Sorry to off-load like that, gentlemen. I am afraid I cannot leave by the way which got me into this country," the man joked, putting down the box he was carrying into a corner, followed by Carter.

Exceeding his surprise to see an officer of the RAF, the chief POW moved in front of their new host, presenting his hand, the English officer squeezing it warmly.

"Colonel Robert Hogan, US Army Air Corps. Welcome to Stalag 13."

"Captain Cameron Lackey, Royal Air Force. The pleasure is mine."

"And you know what?" Carter shouted, so exited he could not stay still. "The captain was Newkirk's instructor! It's crazy, isn't it?"

oOo

"It's not the most comfortable but it's all that we have," Hogan apologized, depositing a blanket on the guest bunk which was in the tunnel.

"It's perfect. I suppose this is the best we can find for an Englishman in this country," Captain Lackey observed.

"Probably," Hogan smiled. "I would have proposed a bed in the barracks but we're disturbed constantly. These Germans have no sense of good manners. Anyway, you were lucky to fall on my men. They were sure the explosion had left no survivors."

"I knew the underground would come to pick up the explosives at the drop point. But it was a surprise to discover that the sabotage operations were led from the inside of a prison camp. It is fantastic what you have accomplished here," Lackey admitted, sitting down on the bunk prepared for him.

"Thank you, but the credit is all to my men."

"Two American sergeants, a French corporal and a cockney. This is a singular team," the captain laughed.

Hogan hesitated at the expression the captain had just used to qualify Newkirk. In his mouth it had a most pejorative connotation. He made no comment because he didn't know the exact meaning of the word and simply wished a good night to his new guest.

"Good night, Colonel Hogan," Lackey echoed.

oOo

The cards were sliding between his fingers, jumping gracefully from one hand to the other, cracking almost imperceptibly one against the other. They danced, creasing the air with their old and creased texture. The gestures were automatic. He had mastered them for a long time and cards were flying, without deviating from their way, from left to right, from right to left. For a moment now he had not been paying attention to the cards anymore, continuing automatically, hoping unconsciously the soft noise of the cardboard would calm the warrior melody of his heart.

He was doing everything he could not to raise his eyes, not to cross the gaze of the man who was discreetly spying on him, in the corner of his eye, while he was telling his adventures to an attentive public.

"It was really impressive, bigger and faster than my plane, even if it costs me to admit it."

"How did you manage with it, captain?" Carter asked in admiration.

The boy's tone of enjoyment made Newkirk cards shiver. He was still shuffling but was not losing a word of the exchange. And he did not like what he was hearing.

"Well my young friend, I was lucky that day. I believe his weapons didn't work when I was in his sight. Well, the pilot never had the opportunity to try again."

"Did you shoot him down?"

"An about-turn was easier for my Fulmar than for his Messerschmitt. A salvo was enough to send him to the ground in an explosion which might very well have been a last tribute for myself. I rejoined my squadron and we were able to return to the base without a plane lost."

"Good job," Olsen commented, stretched on the mattress which overhung the one where Lackey was installed with Carter. Just in front of the table. Just in front of Newkirk. It was hard to believe it was a coincidence.

"And Newkirk, was he part of the mission?" Carter asked, without suspecting he had just opened the door to trouble.

"The corporal wasn't a member of the team anymore."

Newkirk's whole body shivered at the almost enthusiastic tone of the captain. Hoping the conversation would not go farther wasn't counting on the curiosity of the young American sergeant.

"Why?"

Carter turned his head towards Newkirk, waiting for an answer, but the Englishman only kept his eyes on the dark wood of the table. Without noticing the shiver of his friend's hands and the card which had just fallen to the table, the young American turned again to the RAF captain.

Interested in the appearance of their Englishman in the conversation, Lebeau forget his spoon to follow the discussion. He took a peek at the subject of the captain's story and could not suppress a shiver.

Newkirk's eyes had turned dark and cold. The Englishman's hands had stopped playing with the cards, the bits of cardboard folding brutally as Newkirk's fists closed convulsively while Lackey responded to the American sergeant.

"For a team to work well, especially in wartime, trust is more than a necessity…"

He did not have time to finish his sentence. Lebeau had no time either to move to prevent his friend from losing his composure.

The chair was sent to the ground with a crash. On his feet and trembling with a rage his companions could not understand, Newkirk struck the table violently with his fists, which were still closed on some unfortunate cards.

"Shut up!" he yelled in the direction of his captain, his blood boiling painfully in his head and heart.

All the prisoners present in the barracks stopped what they were doing, turning to the Englishman who stared at his superior, completely out of control. Lackey, although a little surprised by his subordinate's sudden excessive anger, could not prevent a wince of disgust from distorting his face briefly.

"Corporal!" he shouted, pulling rank on him.

"Newkirk," Lebeau tried to calm him by gently seizing his arm.

Seeing the increasing rage in his friend's demeanor, the French cook feared that he might assault the captain. Fortunately, reason had prevailed over impulsivity. However, Lebeau knew Newkirk too well not to understand that if he did not calm down immediately, the consequences could be dramatic. Probably for the captain. Surely for Newkirk. He could not take it out on a superior officer, whatever the reasons might be.

The contact of the Frenchman's hand made the Englishman shiver. He pushed at it, without violence, the torn and folded cards he still had in his palm falling miserably to the ground. Lebeau met his gaze before he left the barracks. The anger was still there. An anger shaded with pain.

Colonel Hogan, followed closely by Sergeant Kinchloe, chose this moment to emerge from the tunnel. The men of the barracks were still in shock after the sudden and apparently unjustified excess of rage from their companion.

"What's happening here?" the colonel asked, worried. "We heard shouts."

He saw the chair lying on the ground, surrounded by the ruined cards. As nobody responded he turned to Carter who, mouth open, seemed more shocked than the rest of the prisoners.

"Carter?" He wanted a response.

"It's Newkirk, Colonel," Olsen answered instead of Carter. "He went crazy on the captain."

"Yeah, you could say he went completely wild. Even if it's not so unusual for the guy," another prisoner added, provoking a few uncomfortable laughs from his friends.

"Captain Lackey?"

"I was only telling some stories to my young friends. I guess he has issues with the past. However, this is no excuse for his attitude and lack of respect. Mind you, there are things that never change, it's almost reassuring."

Hogan pretended not to have heard the last sentence. He knew his men. If Newkirk had a problem with the English captain, he surely had a good reason. Other than the one which was obvious. To him anyway. This guy was a troublemaker. And the worst thing was that he seemed to enjoy it. But such a violent reaction, even from Newkirk, was disturbing. He had to count on all his team members. Especially now with the new mission London had sent them. A difficult one. Which meant most often that it was impossible, but that Hogan would have to somehow make it only improbable.

At least now he could understand the origin of his corporal's vehement feelings toward officers.

**To be continued. **

**So? What do you think? Ready for chapter 2? **


	2. Chapter 2 : New mission, Old resentment

**Hi! Thank you for me and SimoneSez for all your kind reviews! I hope you will continue to enjoy the story (and review it) **

**So, here is the chapter 2, good reading. **

**Chapter 2**

**New Mission, Old Resentment**

With his back to the wall of Barracks Three, his knees drawn up against his chest, the RAF corporal was enjoying the comforting rays of the sun on his face, while blowing a few smoke rings into the breeze. He took a fresh puff, savored the taste of the tobacco, and the calmness that he got from it.

"Newkirk?"

So much for the calmness. There was still the tobacco. The Englishman breathed in the smoke deeply and opened his eyes to lift them towards Sergeant Andrew Carter, who was shifting from one foot to the other like a child caught red-handed. The image made Newkirk smile in spite of himself. He patted the ground next to him, and the invitation to sit down was not lost on Carter.

The Englishman closed his eyes again to try to recover the pleasant sensation of serenity that the arrival of the American sergeant had made to disappear, hoping that his companion would do likewise. But apparently Carter had other plans.

"Is everything okay, Newkirk?" he asked apprehensively, fearing a reaction similar to the one he had had in the barracks a little earlier.

"I'm fine, Carter."

A few seconds of silence were accorded to the Englishman in the attempt to recover his serenity, until Carter, whose gaze had never left his friend, finished by guessing the reason for his detached demeanor.

"You're lying."

All that time to guess that… poor Sherlock Holmes would have been very disappointed, thought the Englishman. But he made no comment. He wasn't in any mood to tease the American.

"You're asking me a question, at least have the decency to believe the answer."

"I want to apologize."

To apologize? The young sergeant had just attracted the full attention of his companion, who was watching him with an inquisitive gaze.

"I shouldn't have asked the captain those questions," Carter continued. "I didn't know it would bother you…"

"It isn't you, Andrew. It's that guy that I can't stand. It's instinctive," Newkirk admitted. He was no longer unaware that Carter felt responsible, while at the bottom of it all, the only one who had a problem was himself.

"He seems like a pretty good guy," the sergeant remarked.

"God bless fools…" Newkirk couldn't help commenting, before realizing from his companion's wounded expression that it had maybe not been the right thing to say.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering one to Carter.

At least, with that in his trap, he'd stop interfering with the peacefulness of the pleasant, warm day at Stalag 13.

oOo

Several prisoners from Barracks Two had regrouped in the colonel's office, the RAF captain had gone back into the tunnel to be on the safe side. The only ones missing were Newkirk and Carter. Hogan had assembled them to bring them up to date on the subject of the mission, but his men had other preoccupations on their minds.

"I've never seen him like that, Colonel. He really seemed out of control," commented Corporal Louis Lebeau.

"Do you know exactly what happened, Louis?" Kinch, who had not witnessed the scene, was trying to understand. He had been occupied transcribing a message from London with Colonel Hogan. The latter sighed at the lack of attention from his men as regards to the mission. He understood them. He too was worried about the Englishman, but there was a time for everything, and priority had to be given to the mission.

"I'll take care of that later. Let him calm down for the moment and try to avoid the subject with Lackey. He seemed too happy to stir things up."

"You think so, Colonel?" Olsen asked. "He was only telling us about a few of his missions. He didn't say anything specific. Just that Newkirk had left his unit."

"Newkirk has the right to keep his past private," countered Lebeau, a little more aggressively than he had intended. "Would you like it if a stranger showed up here to expose everything that you would like to keep private?"

"No. But all the same, his reaction was a little over the top."

"It all depends on what it is you want to hide," Hogan murmured, nearly to himself, before calling his men's attention back to the mission.

"A General Eberhart of the Gestapo is going to be arriving here in a little while with a shipment that London is very interested in."

"When is he expected?" Lebeau wanted to know.

"No idea, but I'm sure that our dear Klink will be happy to let us know."

"And the shipment? Do we know what it is? Do we need to destroy it?" the Frenchman continued.

"One thing at a time, Lebeau," his superior checked him. "London hasn't specified the contents of the shipment. I don't even think they're sure of it themselves."

"The orders are simple, at least on paper," Kinch intervened. "Obtain some of the shipment and send it to London, destroy the rest, capture the general."

"In that order?" Olsen joked. Like all the rest, he was beginning to wonder if their contacts in the English capital hadn't all gone crazy.

"Or in a different order, but to obtain part of the shipment after having blown it up… I'm good, but maybe not _that _good."

A few laughs echoed at the colonel's remark, and he continued, his smile giving way to concentration.

"At least the explosives they sent us should help a little."

"I suggest blowing up the shipment and the general, and telling London 'Oops, we must have made a little miscalculation," Lebeau said dourly.

"Don't make that face, Louis; the colonel will come up with a good idea," Kinch smiled.

"I don't doubt that, but, with all due respect, Colonel, most of the time things get worse in direct proportion to how they seem to be getting better," the Frenchman remarked to Hogan, who couldn't help but agree, lifting an eyebrow and almost imperceptibly nodding his head.

"But that's the fun of it, isn't it?"

He pretended not to notice the discouraged looks of his men and opened the door of his office, murmuring to himself:

"Phase one: Klink."

Leaving the barracks, Hogan was pleasantly surprised to see the two men who had been absent during the meeting in the process of smoking peacefully against the wall of Barracks Three.

_The Newkirk problem is under control,_ he thought, inwardly thanking Sergeant Carter for being Carter, as he crossed the compound to present himself at the office of the camp commandant.

oOo

"Colonel, I have a request," Hogan tossed out as he entered, without knocking, the office of the commandant of the stalag.

For once, Klink seemed to be truly busy. He wasn't just scribbling on his papers to give that effect to an unexpected visitor, but was literally overwhelmed by the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk.

"Not now, Hogan. I'm busy," sighed the German without even lifting his head in the American's direction.

"Colonel, I have to protest," replied Colonel Hogan, pretending not to have understood that by 'I'm busy', the commandant meant 'get out!'. Hogan moved a pile of paper that was located on top of the cigar box, taking advantage of Klink's concentration to sneak a couple of them.

He slipped the cigars into his jacket, then bent over the documents Klink was signing, pretending to be interested in their contents. Thinking he understood his motion, the German covered the papers with his elbow suspiciously.

"What do you want, Hogan?"

"Well," the American colonel began with all the seriousness he was capable of, "I think that some of the guards don't like my men."

"Hogan…" sighed Klink.

"I'm serious, Colonel! Personal conflicts can only lead to unfair treatment, and that's against the Geneva Convention."

"I'm sure that your Convention doesn't oblige us to like our prisoners."

"You don't like me?" Hogan replied, with a wounded look and the moist eyes of a beaten dog.

"Hogan! Diiiiiiiiismissed!" the German commander finally succeeded in getting rid of him.

Keeping his battered expression, Hogan pretended to leave the office but he turned back towards Klink.

"I'm sure you don't think that. You'll be much better after General Eberhart's visit Tuesday evening."

"Tomorrow morning," the Luftwaffe colonel corrected him without thinking twice, to the American's great satisfaction.

The German took a second to realize that Hogan was not supposed to be up to date on the Gestapo general's visit.

"Hooooogan!" he called after him. But the senior prisoner of war was already long gone.

oOo

Newkirk didn't reappear in the barracks until curfew. He couldn't resist surveying the building, reassuring himself that Captain Lackey wasn't there, before swallowing hard and starting towards his bunk. Nobody paid any attention to him while he hoisted himself up onto his mattress. That was a relief. He'd been afraid the other prisoners would be looking at him sideways after his performance at the start of the afternoon. Well, he was used to that. All he wanted was to be left in peace, and most of all, that no one would ask him any questions.

Stretching out on his back, he closed his eyes, savoring the aroma of the dinner that was cooking. He would never admit it in front of the French chef, but it happened that Lebeau's cooking made his mouth water. Well, at least from time to time.

The Frenchman added a pinch of salt to the sauce and let it heat for another few instants to be certain that it was perfect. When he was sufficiently proud of the texture, he lovingly covered the few morsels of meat that he had been able to exchange with Sergeant Schultz for a dozen bars of chocolate. Unfortunately, the German had been able to procure only a little bit of beef; the Frenchman had had to double the amount of potatoes added to the meal so it would be sufficiently filling. But with that sauce, even the potatoes would be delicious.

"Andrew, you can go get the colonel; it's ready," the chef told the young American sergeant who had just finished setting the table.

Carter didn't have to be asked twice, and went to knock on the colonel's door to let him know. A few seconds later, nearly the entire team was present around the table while Lebeau served.

Newkirk hadn't budged from his bunk. Sitting with his companions, he was surely going to have to give an explanation for his behavior, and he really didn't have the courage.

Hogan tossed a concerned look in the direction of the Englishman who didn't seem ready to join them and was getting ready to say something, but Lebeau beat him to it, putting the plate intended for Newkirk in front of his empty seat.

"Newkirk, hurry up. I don't know if you English are in the habit of eating cold food, but I can tell you that the sauce is likely to lose all of its flavor. That would be unforgiveable."

"Sorry, Lebeau. I'm not very hungry this evening. You can all split my share," he answered, even while he was immediately betrayed by the helpless growling of his empty stomach.

"Corporal, it would annoy me to have to order you to join us," Hogan finished, smiling, like all of his companions, at the stubbornness of their favorite Englishman.

A few seconds passed before Newkirk finally decided to sit up on his bunk, his legs dangling in mid-air, to send his annoyed expression into the amused one of his superior officer.

"Don't feel like you have to, guv'nor," he said as he entered the colonel's game, deciding to play his role of bad student to the hilt.

"This sauce is delicious, Louis!" Carter exclaimed; he hadn't waited for his neighbors to begin his meal.

One sentence too many. A new growling of his stomach, and Newkirk jumped down from his bunk, then took his place at the table, ready for a good meal in the company of his friends.

"You sure this is edible?" he worried, suspiciously eyeing the meat at the end of his fork.

Lebeau lifted his eyes to heaven but didn't respond, sitting at the end of the table to himself enjoy the dinner he had prepared with all the love that was due to a piece of beef in time of war in a prison camp.

Laughter filled the area around the table while Kinch offered his companions an unflattering imitation of their beloved commandant, Colonel Klink.

"I've already told you, Hogan, stop bothering me! There will be no chocolate eggs for the prisoners!"

Sergeant Kinchloe was soon joined in his act by Corporal Newkirk in the role of Colonel Hogan, his imitation being just as good as Kinch's.

"No chocolate chickens?"

"No chickens."

"No little rabbits?" Newkirk continued, imitating the hopeless pout that their colonel had the habit of using with the German commandant, provoking an increase in laughter from their audience.

"No rabbits either," Kinch replied, trying to keep a straight face.

"Not even a little Adolf?"

"Not even a little…" Kinch interrupted himself, still imitating Colonel Klink when he would finally realize that the senior POW officer had made a fool of him again. "Hooooooooogan! he raged, "Diiiiiiiiiismissed!" He accompanied that last word by a German salute, signalling the end of the play.

The little skit earned a salvo of applause, the two actors enjoying, without the slightest modesty, the general enthusiasm of their public.

The clicking of the opening mechanism of the tunnel sounded, passing nearly unnoticed amidst the laughter and the jokes that bounced around amongst the prisoners. Hogan didn't notice the RAF captain's entrance until he saw Newkirk's face go suddenly blank, not leaving any apparent emotion behind. The Englishman's good humor seemed to abandon him as soon as his former captain was in the vicinity, and that was enough for Hogan to have difficulty putting up with the captain. All the same, he invited him to join them at the table after having Carter verify that no guards were prowling around the barracks. Lackey gave Lebeau back the plate the chef had sent down to him and sat at the other end of the table, near Newkirk.

Hogan attentively looked for any reaction from the corporal. A reaction that didn't happen. The Englishman had quickly resumed the animated conversation that he had been having with Carter before the interruption of their guest. They debated some fundamental questions about the origins of chocolate eggs at Easter, and the type of menus usually served in their respective countries for the occasion. As was his habit, Newkirk teased his friend about his lack of culture, but answered questions on the traditions in England with pleasure. Hogan wasn't fooled. Newkirk seemed to be playing his own part, as he had played that of his superior a little earlier. The jokes had a false ring; his heart wasn't in it.

Knowing that he wouldn't learn anything this evening about the nature of the differences that opposed their Englishman and the newcomer, Hogan engaged the captain in conversation about the recent reinforcements that had been brought to the allied forces, Lackey having had the opportunity to test a few of those new innovations. The captain knew his subject well and Colonel Hogan almost regretted it when the conversation came to an end at the imminent arrival of Schultz who would come to count the prisoners before lights-out.

Getting to his feet to head for bed, Hogan saw the look on Newkirk's face as he looked in the direction of the bunk that was closing on the entrance to the tunnel and behind the English captain. Relief? He would have to have a talk with his corporal. But not this evening. The Gestapo general was arriving the next day, at the crack of dawn. They all had to be in good shape to handle the directive from London, although he didn't yet have an idea what, when, or how. And Newkirk was a valuable asset. To confront him with something that he wanted to keep at arm's length was the last thing to do right now.

With a little luck, the Englishman would come to confide in him of his own accord, but the American colonel didn't really believe that. If he knew one really stubborn person, it was that damned Englishman.

**To be continued. **

**So ? Do you like how the things are going on ? **


	3. Chapter 3 : Show Time

**Hi ! I think you will like this chapter, where Newkirk is, well… Newkirk ;) The Gestapo is finally here and it is _Show time_ ! **

**Thanks again for the reviews and thanks again to SimoneSez because this is one of the chapters I have been thrilled to discover in English. **

**(sorry for my English in all the presentations in the beginnings of the chapters, hopefully I am not in charge of the translation, lol). **

**Chapter 3**

**Show time**

It was still early; the sun had hardly broken over the horizon. But already, most of the men of Barracks Two were awake and in uniform.

"There they are!" Corporal Louis Lebeau exclaimed, his eyes riveted to the eyepiece of their industrial periscope. The lens, camouflaged in a barrel of water outside, had a direct view of the entrance of the camp. Two trucks had just passed the gates, stopping in front of Colonel Klink, who was waiting for them steadfastly. The commandant seemed to be fidgeting with impatience, but to the casual eye it was mostly with apprehension that he was trembling. He didn't like the Gestapo much, like any other sane man. And his guest wasn't just any Gestapo officer, but a general, no less.

"What are they doing?" asked Kinch, who stood with his back to the barracks door to prevent any unwelcome intrusions.

"This Bosch seems like a big shot. I'd almost be sorry for Klink. Although, we could be sorry for this general too. I'm sure Klink is about to give him the usual nonsense."

"Welcome to Stalag 13," Carter translated. "The most secure stalag in all of Germany. Never a single escape."

"If he only knew, the silly sod," Newkirk commented, seated on his bunk.

"And the cargo?" Hogan pressed. "Can you see what it is?"

"No. There are two trucks and a bunch of new and not very friendly faces, all armed to the teeth. Hey, they're getting out. Going in the direction of the cooler, it looks like. And Schultz is coming this way!"

At that, Lebeau lowered the eyepiece of the periscope which again took on its innocent camouflage as the faucets in the sink.

The prisoners immediately took different positions around the room, picking up a book or a cup of coffee to fool the enemy about what they had actually been doing. The enemy in question, Sergeant Schultz, opened the door briskly and shouted out his orders:

"Roll call! Raus! Everybody on your feet!"

He stopped short at the threshold of the barracks as he realized that the men were already up and ready for roll call.

"A coffee, Schultz?" Lebeau politely suggested, holding out a cup to him.

"Oh, that's very nice," the big man replied in kind, before catching himself. "Now is not the time for coffee! Raus! Schnell, schnell, schnell!"

"You don't have to shout, Schultz," Newkirk chided him as he climbed down from his perch. "You can see perfectly well everybody's ready."

"That's right, Schultz; relax," Carter added, passing in front of the fat sergeant to leave the barracks, closely followed by his companions.

As Colonel Hogan, following his men, passed the door, Schultz took him by the arm.

"Colonel Hogan, why are they so ready to go out today? You aren't planning any funny business?" asked the German with suspicion.

The American gave him his best smile and had the pleasure of answering him honestly.

"Well, if you really want to know, Sergeant, we'd been thinking…"

"No, no, no!" Schultz cut him off briskly, his fear of the consequences that one of their pranks could have on his career and also on his life easily read on his face. "I don't want to know anything about it. I know nothing. I see nothing. I hear nothing."

"It's your call," the colonel answered simply, shrugging his shoulders.

oOo

The men of Barracks Two remained silent and motionless while Schultz counted them, which in itself was out of the ordinary enough to be noticed. Colonel Hogan and his team, who were often the source of trouble in the ranks, were attentively observing the crates that were being unloaded from the Gestapo truck and then brought to the cooler. After all, there was no place more secure than a prison. If one omitted the tunnels dug by the prisoners of the stalag which led directly to several of the solitary confinement cells…

"It's impossible to know what's in those crates," Hogan murmured.

"If you like, guv'nor, I'll volunteer for the cooler," Newkirk, who stood at his left, proposed.

Hogan lifted an eyebrow. The offer was logical; it was the only way to verify the contents of those crates. To use the tunnels would be too risky with all those Germans inside the building. But what surprised the senior POW was the sudden enthusiasm with which Newkirk presented himself as a volunteer. He was never a willing volunteer, balking nearly every time Hogan assigned him to a mission. It was almost only for show, but it was still a significant difference from this sudden desire of the corporal's to wind up in a cell.

_Of course, _thought Hogan. _Once he's inside those four walls, he won't have to worry about running into Lackey._

"Okay," he acquiesced finally. "It's your show, Newkirk."

Klink came out of his office to listen to the report from his sergeant, accompanied by the Gestapo general. Schultz saluted his superior before making his report.

"All present, Herr Kommandant!"

"Very good, Schultz. And also ahead of what I can see for myself."

_And it's showtime, _Newkirk thought to himself before calling out, in response to the commandant's remark, "We couldn't have waited a moment longer to see your radiant smile, Colonel."

"_Humpf_…" Klink grumbled as he advanced toward the prisoners. But he was stopped by General Eberhart of the Gestapo.

"If I may."

The question sounded like an order, and the general stepped in front of Klink to position himself in front of the English corporal.

"It seems you like to be noticed," he said, examining with disgust Newkirk's somewhat neglected clothing.

This last made Newkirk suppress a shiver as he met the cold gaze of the German. This was not the time to be afraid. After all, it was _only _the Gestapo. And he had a mission to accomplish. And so he didn't respond to the general's remark, who took that as a personal victory and grimaced some semblance of a smile before starting to head back to Klink's office. Until he heard the laughter of the prisoners rising behind him and he saw Klink's face fall.

He turned around immediately and couldn't help the red flush that came over his face when he saw the corporal who had just returned to his place in the ranks in the process of juggling with a dagger. He instinctively moved his hand to his belt. With _his _dagger!

The prisoner tossed him a look of defiance without displaying the slightest difficulty in keeping the weapon in perfect balance on his index finger, whether on the handle or on the pointed blade, offering a very diverting spectacle to his comrades. The general clenched his fists and took a step in the direction of the Englishman, but he was stopped short by the blade of his weapon which had just plunged into the ground, a few centimeters away from his foot. And the Englishman kept smiling at him, as if he had nothing whatsoever to fear from him.

That was the last straw. He tore his dagger from the ground and lunged towards the Englishman who, to his great pleasure, unconsciously took a few paces backward to protect himself from the general, an expression of worry replacing mockery on his face.

Newkirk didn't even have time to understand what had happened when he found himself already on the ground, lying on his back, one knee pressed brutally against his chest and one burning hand encircling his throat, preventing him from breathing. The blade of the dagger with which he had been amusing himself a few moments earlier was at present so close to his eye that he could almost feel the coldness of the metal.

He tried to throw the German off him, to break his hold, but the harder he tried to get loose, the less he was able to breathe.

"Losing an eye may relieve you of the desire to laugh, once and for all."

The threat made the Englishman tremble; he was now barely struggling. The world around him was beginning to become dangerously blurry… and then, the air was flowing into his lungs once more, and the weight on his chest disappeared. Friendly hands were helping him to his feet, gently rubbing his back while he coughed painfully.

Once his coughing had subsided, it didn't take long for him to realize what had happened. Colonel Hogan must have thrown the general off; the German was now looking at the senior POW with a vicious glare. And the colonel had also, in the process, recovered the dagger.

"General Eberhart, you're not hurt?" Klink ran up in a panic.

Hogan returned the weapon to the Gestapo general and turned his back, thus offering him total indifference, to verify that Newkirk wasn't badly hurt. It reassured him to see his men putting the corporal back on his feet. For an instant, he had really believed that the nutcase had indeed planted that knife in his eye.

"I'm all right, guv'nor," the Englishman reassured him, his voice still a bit hoarse.

"I want that man punished for his behavior, Klink," ordered General Eberhart, who had begun to recover some semblance of getting a hold of his emotions.

"Of course, General," the commandant of the camp obeyed. "Colonel Hogan, accompany the corporal to my office."

oOo

"Corporal," the commandant sighed as he seated himself at his desk. "Do you have anything to say with respect to your behavior?"

"Uh, no, Colonel. In fact I'd really like a glass of water if it's not too much to ask," Newkirk replied, rubbing his throat.

Klink's exasperated look passed from the impertinent corporal to Colonel Hogan, who stood at his side.

"As for you, Colonel, you're lucky that General Eberhart doesn't hold you responsible for your actions."

"I hardly nudged him. He shouldn't have gone after one of my men," Hogan replied calmly.

"Well, tomorrow morning, it won't be a problem anymore. They'll be leaving before breakfast."

At these words, Hogan turned towards Newkirk and saw that his companion was thinking exactly the same thing as he. They had very little time to discover what was in those crates and develop a plan worthy of the term to accomplish the mission assigned to them by London. They were going to have to cut it close.

"To provoke a general, and even worse, a Gestapo general… what in the world were you thinking, Newkirk?" the commandant tried to understand, using all the patience of which he was capable, certainly believing that the English corporal must have lost his mind.

When he didn't respond, Klink added:

"We're used to seeing you play with fire since you were transferred to Stalag 13, Corporal, but I was under the impression that you were settling in a bit since then."

"He was only trying to impress his buddies. You don't have to punish him too harshly for that," Hogan intervened, placing a paternal hand on the Englishman's shoulder to underscore his words. "Sending him to the cooler is too cruel. He won't do it again," the American colonel promised.

"Oh, so that's it; a little slap on the wrist and all is forgotten," said the commandant, pretending to enter into the senior POW's game without understanding that he was headed in the exact direction that Hogan wanted to go.

"Fifteen days in the cooler. And not a day less!" he added quickly just as the American opened his mouth to protest. "Schuuuultz!"

The sergeant entered the office immediately as soon as he heard the commandant's call.

"Ja, Herr Kommandant!"

"Take Newkirk to the cooler."

"Jawohl," Schultz acknowledged, gently taking the English corporal's arm to guide him to the solitary confinement cells.

"And Schultz," Klink added, "get him some water."

That indication of caring touched Hogan. He wasn't used to seeing the German colonel show any compassion unless he had been forced into it. General Eberhart's reaction must have really rattled him. He had stuck to his guns; he didn't appreciate it when a stranger, not even a general, came into his camp and abused his prisoners.

oOo

Colonel Hogan took the time to chat up Klink's secretary, Hilda, before leaving the commandant's office, flirting more or less innocently with the young woman.

When he walked out into the fresh air, he noticed immediately that something was wrong. Schultz was in the process of taking Newkirk out of the cooler, although he should logically have been putting him _in _there. According to the plan, at any rate. The U.S. Air Corps colonel quickly understood the reason when he noticed that General Eberhart was right behind them, visibly angry.

"No one comes in here; is that understood, Sergeant!"

"Jawohl, General. But Colonel Klink…"

"I don't give a damn about Colonel Klink."

Noticing that Hogan was looking in their direction, Newkirk gave him the high sign, discreetly raising his thumb to let him know that he had had the time to take a glimpse of the Gestapo's precious cargo. Hogan nodded. That would kill two birds with one stone: they would know what was in those crates that were so important to London, and Newkirk wouldn't have to stay locked up. Even if it had been the Englishman's idea in the first place, Hogan knew that he, more than any of the others, had a hard time tolerating being locked up.

Unfortunately, the Gestapo general wasn't thinking along those same lines.

"There aren't any other ways to punish prisoners here?" he demanded of Schultz, who lifted his eyes to the sky, looking into his memory to find any other punishments that had been inflicted on the prisoners. They usually had something to do with suspension of privileges, but that generally affected the entire prison population. When an offense had been committed by just one man, the rule was to take him to the cooler.

"I wonder if the reputation of this stalag is not overestimated," grumbled Eberhart, whose gaze, attracted by something inside the cooler, suddenly took on a worrisome sparkle.

"Here," he said, taking hold of one of the chains that hung from the wall, brandishing it proudly in front of the guard and his prisoner. "Bring him over here," he added as he approached one of the small openings of the cooler, passing the chain around the bars at the window.

Reluctantly, Schultz pushed Newkirk toward the general who was obviously waiting for the prisoner to offer his wrists to be lashed together.

_You can always run, pal, _thought Newkirk, faking incomprehension even as his blood had begun to boil at the idea of being displayed in the middle of the camp like an animal at the fair. He could see from the corner of his eye several of his companions watching the scene, most of them already beginning to raise a protest. He saw Lebeau and Carter advancing towards them, but a sign from their colonel dissuaded them; then the colonel himself stepped up to Schultz.

"What's going on here?" Hogan intervened, obviously already having understood perfectly well what the German general intended to do. "You don't have any right to chain this man here."

"No? Who says so?" he mocked.

There was no adequate response to that question. He would have been able to invoke the Geneva Convention, but Eberhart wasn't Klink. The Gestapo wasn't concerned with the protection of enemy prisoners.

Newkirk could see the colonel's anger mounting, his features tense and a savage fire in his dark eyes. He knew very well that Hogan was torn between the need to trample the Nazi's dominating pride, and the necessity of keeping a low profile. This wasn't easy for a man who placed the well-being of his men above anything else, and the Englishman knew that very well.

"Let it go, guv'nor. I don't want to give this man the satisfaction… obviously he needs some entertainment."

At that, without paying any mind either to the hateful stare of the general nor the concerned look of his colonel, Newkirk held out his wrists to the German, who clamped the cuffs on with a pleasure tainted with sadism.

"A day and a night should suffice as a lesson, Corporal."

The Englishman immediately tested the length of the chains to check the range of mobility, and the result really wasn't very encouraging.

"He can't even sit down like that!" Hogan protested. "You could at least lengthen the chain a little."

At everyone's surprise, the general seemed to do as the colonel asked. At least, that was what he thought until the German further reduced the length of the bonds, obliging the Englishman to remain standing against the wall, not permitting any freedom of movement whatsoever.

For the third time in less than a half hour, Hogan had to restrain himself from punching Eberhart in the nose. And it was hard.

"Sergeant Kramer!" the general called, immediately attracting the attention of the Gestapo soldiers who were guarding the entrance of the cooler. "I want you to watch this prisoner. Don't allow anyone to come within three meters of him, is that understood?"

"Jawohl, Herr General!" the Gestapo sergeant responded, saluting him and immediately turning his rifle in Hogan's direction.

He glared in the soldier's direction but did what was expected of him, moving away from the cooler and from Newkirk at the same time, his silent apology receiving a reassuring smile from the RAF corporal in reponse.

He immediately noticed the fire that was burning in Lebeau's eyes, but the French corporal didn't say a word. Sergeant Carter didn't have that kind of restraint.

"Why did you let him do that, Colonel?" he asked, unable to understand, nearly beside himself.

"You think I had a choice?" Hogan snapped without intending to, immediately regretting the tone he had taken.

He lightly tapped the sergeant's head by way of apology, and signaled to his men to follow him into the barracks. They needed to come up with a plan, fast. And while Newkirk didn't seem too troubled by the fact that he was chained in full view of everyone, like an animal, he knew how humiliating that had to be for him. And to stay and watch couldn't help but add to the humiliation.

**To be continued…**

**I hope you liked it as well as I liked to write it. **


	4. Chapter 4 : Like a chained wolf

**Chapter 4**

**Like a Chained Wolf**

It hadn't even been an hour that he'd been chained to those bars, without much freedom of movement, and he was already bored to death. Most of the prisoners had left the area, going back into the barracks or busying themselves in other parts of the camp. They had no doubt thought, and rightly so, that their companion would prefer solitude to having to put up with the looks and indiscreet conversations. That the Germans viewed them as animals, they were used to. But the humiliation took on a much more bitter taste when it had to do with friends and brothers in arms.

Newkirk was grateful to them. To stay planted there without an audience was much less disagreeable. Except, without any activity around him, he was really beginning to find that the time passed slowly. Even the Krauts had disappeared, with the exception of the guard who watched over him and the one who guarded the entry of the cooler. And as luck would have it, the window he was chained to opened onto an empty cell. He would naturally have preferred an unobstructed view of the Gestapo's activities. Of course, he had to find a way to inform Colonel Hogan about what he had seen in there. If they didn't move quickly, the Gestapo would be gone before they would be able to do anything at all. And the mission would be a failure.

Blimey, how bored he was! If he could only get a cigarette… Why had he slipped them into his pants pocket like that? They were impossible to get at.

"Hey!" he called to his jailer. "Hey!" he tried again without any more success; the German turned his back, completely ignoring him.

"I'm escaping!"

The German soldier turned around immediately, training his rifle on the Englishman who, still attached to the window, gave him a cocky smile.

"Eine cigarette, bitte?" Newkirk asked, unconcerned about the rifle that was still pointed in his direction.

The German emitted a grumble that seemed to include one or two curses before lowering his weapon, checked that his superior wasn't in the area, and approached the prisoner. He offered a cigarette to the Englishman, supposing that he would now leave him in peace, and returned to his post.

"Danke," Newkirk thanked him before inhaling a large puff of nicotine and regretting it as soon as he had. The barely-touched cigarette fell onto the ground, its owner overcome with a violent coughing fit. He had almost succeeded in forgetting the pain in his throat until the burning from the passage of the smoke in his trachea reminded him of it. Coughing only made matters worse. And he couldn't stop.

The German guard threw him an annoyed look. Not only to watch him suffocate, but to have to put up with a prisoner who was a little too noisy. _Charming. _If Newkirk hadn't been attached, he would have jammed the cigarette down his throat, to let him see how _he_ liked the feeling.

He had never been so happy to see Schultz. Our rather, he had never been so happy to see Schultz carrying a glass of water.

"Halt!" the Gestapo soldier stopped him.

"The commandant ordered me to bring the prisoner some water," he justified himself.

The guard thought for a moment, and then, throwing a glance in the direction of the prisoner whose cough still refused to be calmed, he acquiesced and allowed Schultz to approach the Englishman.

The German sergeant, who got along with the prisoners almost as well as he did with the other guards, was far from approving of what the general had done. But he had neither the rank nor the courage to protest. All he could do was to help Newkirk drink, as his metal bonds prevented him from holding the glass. Anyway, with that cough, he would have surely spilled half of it.

The water had the desired effect, reducing the burning in his throat, finally permitting the air to find a pathway to his lungs.

"Thanks, Schultzie. Remind me to let you win next time at poker."

"Oh, that would be cheating!" the sergeant exclaimed, just for the principle of the thing, before adding, "It's true that I need a little bit of money to buy this purse for my wife… her birthday is coming up."

"Done! And, Schultzie…"

"Ja?"

The idea of using Schultz to pass a message along to the colonel crossed the Englishman's mind. But with the other Kraut guard and the screwball general roaming around, he couldn't allow himself to make the slightest error. Most of all, the German sergeant risked a lot. He would have to find another way.

"Thanks again for the water."

"Bitte," Schultz smiled before leaving him alone but for the company of his chain and his bars.

This was going to be a very long day.

oOo

"We have to find a way to contact Newkirk and keep the Gestapo from leaving the camp before we can complete the mission."

"To immobilize the trucks wouldn't be too difficult," Lebeau figured; seated, along with the other members of the team, in Colonel Hogan's office.

"It's possible, yes. Easy, I don't think so. But I'd like to be able to confirm the contents of the shipment to London before going any further. The British seem to have some idea and obviously, they've preferred to keep it to themselves. Only I'd prefer to be up to date before doing anything. Going into a mission blind never turns out well…"

"You think London could have been mistaken about the target?" Kinch asked.

"I doubt it, but better safe than sorry," Hogan responded.

"That's not like you, Colonel."

"What's not like me, Carter? We always have a plan."

"Carter's right," Lebeau added. "To take so many precautions, that's losing time."

"Louis, losing time is always better than losing our lives. This General Eberhart… the smallest mistake on our part and there won't even be a firing squad."

"Seen from that angle," Lebeau agreed. He had seen the German general's reaction when Newkirk had provoked him. The man was crazy. The colonel was right to use extra caution, but it would be necessary to play it close.

"And delaying their departure, we're waiting on that too?" Carter wanted to know. "I can place a small bomb underneath and _boom_!" He mimed the explosion with his hands under the uneasy gaze of his companions.

"I said we had to be careful, Carter, not that we had to make them think the camp is being liberated by the Allies…"

_Whatever_, thought the colonel, an idea beginning to develop in his mind.

Returning to the main room of Barracks 2, Hogan and his men realized that Captain Lackey had left the tunnel and was currently playing cards with two British soldiers.

"Captain, you should stay down below. It's really not a good time."

Lackey turned his head in Hogan's direction, giving him a smile.

"I thought perhaps I could help you with the mission from London, given that it's cost me my airplane."

"Any help would be welcome," the American colonel agreed. "Do you have any special skills? We already have a cook, a radio specialist, an explosives expert and a pickpocket."

The Brit frowned before muttering, as if to himself but sufficiently loud for all the men in the barracks to hear:

"Not necessary to point out which one is the pickpocket… by the way, where _is_ the cockney?"

The subtext was hardly dissipated by the RAF captain's detached tone. Hogan didn't say anything in spite of the questioning looks that his men were throwing his way, content to respond as politely as possible. Which was, in the end, more aggressive than polite.

"You only have to take a look outside."

Discreetly, the captain opened the window to look out at the camp. It didn't take him long to spy Newkirk; the Englishman was the only prisoner present in the compound, and he couldn't resist a smile of satisfaction as he asked, "What could he have done to wind up like that? Break into the commandant's safe?"

"He's already done that. Several times," replied Carter, who couldn't seem to understand how that might pose a problem. After all, Newkirk's talents had saved them more than once.

"He obeyed an order," Hogan clarified, without giving any additional details.

The captain threw him a questioning look but didn't add anything, his attention turning anew towards the chained corporal.

"Was singing part of that order?" he asked finally.

"What?" Hogan was taken aback by the question and approached the window. And actually, his corporal _was _actually in the process of singing. More and more loudly, the absence of any noise in the compound allowing the prisoners in the barracks to clearly hear the words. _French! _At least, almost. The accent wasn't all that accurate.

_« C'est la p'tite femme de Paris  
Qui, gracieuse et coquette,  
Met d' l'amour dans tous les esprits  
Et fait tourner toutes les têtes  
Oui ! Mais quand un cœur est pris  
Par la p'tite femme qui passe  
De Montmart' à Montparnasse  
C'est une petite femme de Paris_

_Frédérique_

_Isabelle_

_Louise_

_et_

_Marie_

_C'est la p'tite femme de Paris  
Qui, gracieuse et coquette,  
Met d' l'amour dans tous les esprits  
Et fait tourner toutes les têtes  
Oui ! Mais quand un cœur est pris  
Par la p'tite femme qui passe  
De Montmart' à Montparnasse  
C'est une petite femme de Paris_

_Noëlle_

_Odette_

_Madeleine_

_et_

_Suzette »_

"What are you doing, Louis?"

Carter's question made the colonel turn back around. Corporal Lebeau had grabbed the sheet of paper the card-players had been keeping track of points on, and was scribbling some letters on it, all the while listening very carefully.

"Louis?" the young American repeated.

"Shut up, Carter." It was Kinch who gave the order, finally understanding what the cook was doing by listening to their Englishman begin the song over again.

The colonel approached the table and when Lebeau stopped writing, he slid the paper across the tabletop to read what he had written.

"This is all he said?" he wanted to know. "Films and names? That's all he saw?"

"Oui, Colonel. I tried to teach him that song a little while ago. He's got a great memory. Only, in the song _La Petite Femme de Paris_, there aren't any names of girls. He used the first letters of those names to get the message across. Brilliant, isn't it?"

"It's brilliant, all right," Hogan approved.

"Too bad that he had to massacre that poor song," sighed the Frenchman, disappointed by Newkirk's accent, so… _Newkirk._

At that moment, the French words that floated in the air of the camp were brutally interrupted in the middle of a verse.

oOo

"I said, shut up!" the German general shouted, the barrel of his pistol placed against Newkirk's forehead.

Newkirk could not stop a shiver. He hadn't had the intention of getting Eberhart mad at him all over again. He had already had a chance to experience the consequences. Unfortunately, he couldn't help himself.

"Maybe you'd like me to sing something else. I'm sorry, but I don't know any German songs. But I've got a really good memory. Try me; hum a little something."

He saw the German's face getting red and concluded that he'd be better off not trying his luck.

"Right. I'll stop," he said at last.

Eberhart, who had many other things to deal with besides this Englishman, reholstered his weapon and turned around, not without a last murderous look in the prisoner's direction. He still wanted to take up his weapon again and shoot when he heard, behind his back:

"You only had to ask nicely."

oOo

When he realized that Eberhart was returning to his duties in the cooler, leaving the Englishman in peace, Hogan closed the window and turned toward his men.

"Captain, go back down into the tunnel, help Kinch get together some tools, shovels and picks. Kinch, before that, send Newkirk's message to London, so we know what the Gestapo has that's so important. Carter, you can get some explosives ready, something that'll make a lot of noise without doing too much damage."

"What kind of noise?"

"The kind that sounds like an air raid," the colonel responded with a malicious smile.

"No problem, boy! Uh, Colonel. No problem, Colonel," the young sergeant babbled, excited by the prospect of blowing up some explosives. Even fake ones. The result was the same: a big boom!

"Shovels, Colonel?" Kinch asked, looking for confirmation and eventually a few clear explanations. Clear explanations that his superior found it a pleasure to give him:

"I predict that the raid tonight is going to cause a lot of damage to the road."

The colonel's plan was unanimously accepted, not one of the men raising any protest. On the other hand, the only person who almost always put any plan in question was tied to a window at the moment.

Hogan waited for Lackey, Kinch and Carter to go back down into the tunnel before turning towards one of the British soldiers who continued to play cards.

"Jones?"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"The word _cockney_… what exactly does that mean?"

"Are you talking about Newkirk, sir?" The nod of the colonel's head confirmed it, and he answered the question. "That's what they call Londoners who live east of the city, in the poor neighborhoods."

"It's kind of an insulting term, isn't it?"

The Englishman agreed, and then specified, "That depends on who uses it."

"Let's say Captain Lackey." Hogan had already anticipated the response but he preferred to be sure of it.

Jones gave a smile mixed with disgust.

"Well, yes, it's an insult. If I may speak freely about an officer, sir, the captain was born, as you might say, with a silver spoon in his mouth. Like most of the officers in the RAF. It's obvious that Newkirk isn't up to the captain's standards."

**To be continued. **

**Do you like it so far? It is only the beginning ;) **


	5. Chapter 5 : A night full of surprises

**Thank you very much, I love yours reviews as I love to know you enjoy the story. So, enjoy! Here is chapter 5 **

**Chapter 5**

**A Night Full of Surprises**

Hogan knew that it was risky to leave the camp while the presence of a general, and one from the Gestapo no less, risked pushing Klink to overzealousness. On top of that, this time the vast majority of the men of Barracks Two accompanied the colonel's team. Ten men. Difficult to be discreet in such large numbers, but this time the speed of the operation took priority over everything else.

Sergeant Kinchloe had stayed at the camp to oversee the activity of the Germans, hoping to be able to warn the outside team in time if a nocturnal visit from their commandant seemed to be on the horizon.

The American colonel and his men didn't have far to go. They split up into two groups to be more efficient, each team covering one of the roads leading to Stalag 13. Hogan's team included Carter, Lebeau, Olsen and Jones. He left the command of the other team to Captain Lackey.

While Carter placed his 'noisemakers' along the side of the road, the other men of his team set about using shovels and picks to render the road as impassable as possible. All the while knowing very well that they would have to repair the damage themselves. After all, why should the Germans tire themselves out, with a prison camp full of men to use as a work crew so nearby?

They needed no more than two hours and a lot of sweat to complete the operation. Hogan had feared that the nocturnal passage of some vehicle would put their plan in jeopardy, but they didn't see a single car. Fortunately! If they wanted to pass their work off as the result of an Allied bombing, it would be better if nobody saw it before the explosions were heard.

The result was more than satisfactory. Even a motorcycle would have had trouble crossing what now resembled a minefield.

"Carter, did you set the timer?"

"Yes, Colonel. It should blow in forty-five minutes."

"Well, that leaves us just enough time to return to camp. Lackey should have finished his part; he should meet up with us near the entrance of the emergency tunnel. Don't leave anything behind. The Allies rarely drop shovels instead of bombs."

oOo

A series of explosions rang out in the air, but Newkirk didn't even lift his eyes to try and spot the Allied aircraft. Instead, his gaze was focused in the direction of Barracks 2. The timing was too perfect; it could only be something to do with one of the colonel's plans.

The Englishman had to suppress a smile when he saw Klink exit his quarters in terror, very quickly joined by General Eberhart who, unlike the commandant of the camp wrapped in his bathrobe, had taken the time to put on his uniform. The two men peered anxiously into the shadows, trying to estimate the distance that separated them from the Allied bombs.

As for Schultz, he didn't appear until any trace of danger had passed and the silence of the night had fallen again on the camp.

"Schultz! An attack! Where have you been, you fat imbecile?" snapped Colonel Klink.

"I came as quickly as possible, _Kommandant!_" replied the German sergeant, knowing very well that his superior wouldn't believe him. He himself very often had trouble convincing himself of his own sense of duty.

"And then, Colonel," Schultz added in a small voice, "I don't very well see what I could have done against those bombers."

Klink shot his sergeant a look before remarking in an acerbic tone, "You could have stood still in the middle of the camp. Seeing you, the British would surely have taken pity on us."

Eberhart cut short the dispute about which he was completely disinterested, putting his finger on a rather important point. "There is no strategic installation in this vicinity… what could they have been aiming for?"

"The railroad, probably," Klink replied, proud to be able to be useful to the general's musings.

The general in question didn't even give him a look, and murmured an unconvinced 'possibly' while turning in the direction of the prisoner he had chained to the wall of the cooler. A prisoner who gave him a little wave of his hand while smiling broadly at him.

Eberhart scowled in return. That Englishman really got under his skin and he didn't know how long he would be able to put up with his impertinent expression before wringing his neck once and for all. Fortunately, he was leaving for Berlin in the morning.

oOo

The explosions rang out at the moment that Hogan and his men were returning to the barracks.

"That was close," Lebeau remarked.

"Very close," the colonel agreed, before turning toward Carter who was washing his face, still covered in black wax. "Carter? You're sure you set that timer for forty minutes?"

"Yes, Colonel. Well… with that type of homemade timer, you can have a few minutes' delay."

"Twenty minutes is a lot," Lebeau commented, throwing him a grim look. "The next time, be a little more accurate. Most of all when it has to do with real explosive charges."

"There wasn't any danger," Carter claimed.

"This time," the Frenchman retorted.

"That's enough, you two," Hogan interrupted them. "We've all done our best tonight. Get some sleep."

The fatigue from all the work they'd accomplished during the course of the night was making his men irritable. But what weighed the most on their morale, as on his own, was the absence of one of their own. None of them doubted that Newkirk would have difficulty getting any rest.

"Colonel!" inserted Kinch, who had just come up from the tunnel, interrupting his thoughts. "I finally got through to London. I reported what Newkirk saw and they confirmed that the shipment is definitely what they thought it was."

His sergeant's serious expression indicated to Hogan that he had received important information. He urged him to continue with a nod of his head.

"The unit where Eberhart was based on the French front was charged with collecting information on the Resistance. And we know all the Gestapo's methods for extracting information…"

"You mean the dossiers, those names Newkirk was talking about, are actually lists?"

"Yes, Colonel. Lists of information about the Resistance."

"We can't let them get those documents to Berlin!" Lebeau insisted.

"Don't worry, Louis," Hogan told him, patting his shoulder. "In one way, we're lucky." In answer to the Frenchman's concerned expression, he added, "They would have been able to transmit that information to the Vichy government… their lack of confidence is going to play out in our favor."

"And the films?" Carter put in. "What are they exactly?"

Hogan, like Lebeau, anticipated the response but he preferred to hear it directly from Kinch's mouth.

"They're recordings of… interrogations."

oOo

Newkirk shivered. He was beginning to get cold. Although it was late in the spring, the nights were still cool. Schultz had come by to pay him a visit after the end of the 'bombing' to leave him a blanket 'on the commandant's orders'. That was so like the German sergeant, to worry about the health of an enemy soldier. On the other hand, he doubted that the order had really come from Klink. To lie like that to a Gestapo man, little Schultzie was coming up slowly but surely in the Englishman's estimation.

Although, even with a blanket over his back, he wasn't likely to fall asleep. Not standing up. And how he had tried! But after a whole day, his legs had begun to hurt and when he closed his eyes, the only thing that came to him was pain.

It was time to take things in hand. The guard wasn't really watching him. His first guardian had been replaced by another for the night, and this one, having the impression that a chained prisoner didn't present any risk of escaping, only turned rarely in his direction to verify that he was still there. He was not counting on the Englishman's talents.

Reaching up to his neck with his chained hands, Newkirk succeeded after a few ineffective attempts to grasp a metal wire that he kept hidden in the lining of the collar of his jacket. He twisted it lightly to make a small hook. Pretending to press himself against the bars of the window to ease the pain in his legs, the Englishman discreetly set himself to his task, while keeping a close eye on the guard.

The metal hook slid into the lock that held the chain around the bars, guided by his skilled hands. No lock could hold out on him for long, and this one was no exception. In less than a minute the click was heard.

The guard didn't react, confirming Newkirk's suspicions. He had probably fallen asleep. So much the better. Trying to make the least amount of noise possible, the Englishman slipped the chain around the bars to give it a little more length. Then he replaced the lock.

_Neither seen nor known, _he thought, proud of himself as he sat down on the ground, his back against the cold wall of the cooler. The clanking of the chain caused by the motion seemed to wake the guard who turned in the direction of the prisoner, and he looked at him with disbelief. He had been under the impression that the Englishman had been restrained to the point of having to remain standing. To be on the safe side, he approached and pulled on the chain. The lock was still there, the prisoner had no way of escaping. The German threw a fresh look of defiance at the Englishman, but he hadn't at first glance done anything wrong. The guard returned to his post, keeping one eye on the prisoner, just in case.

Newkirk was amused by the reaction of the German and closed his eyes, bundling up as best he could under his blanket. In spite of the chilliness of the night and the hardness of the ground, it didn't take him very long to drift off to dreamland.

oOo

The next morning, on their way out of the barracks for roll call, the prisoners fully expected to find their English friend in the same predicament as the day before, on his feet and chained. He was definitely still tied, but that was the only thing that hadn't changed.

Newkirk was sleeping like a baby, comfortably positioned against the wall of the cooler, unaware of the morning's activities, loud though they were, of Stalag 13.

"It was hardly worth the trouble of worrying," grumbled Lebeau while Schultz counted the prisoners.

"You were worried?" Kinch kidded.

"No. But even so."

Hogan smiled at the restrained demeanor of his French corporal. He never stopped squabbling with the Englishman, but in the end, he was the one closest to him.

"All present!" Schultz reported to his superior, proud of himself.

Each time he counted he expected to be missing a prisoner. A prisoner who, most often, had miraculously returned by the next roll call. And each time the same dilemma was presented to him: hide the absence of one of his men from Klink, or do his duty and report it. Most of the time, Colonel Hogan made him understand that it would be better to keep such an absence to himself. And most of the time, he obeyed. Sometimes he wondered whether it was Colonel Klink or Colonel Hogan who was running this camp.

In the end, he couldn't make an honest report to his commandant unless he wasn't missing anybody.

"Fine," said Klink. "Diiiiiiiiismissed!"

"What about Newkirk?" Hogan asked as he approached the colonel. "He should be set free this morning."

The German general chose that moment to appear, heading without even a look for the commandant of the camp towards the cooler along with three of his men. He gave them some orders and they went inside to carry out the crates that had been placed there and start putting them back onto the trucks stationed nearby.

Knowing Klink by heart and knowing very well that he wouldn't do anything to risk annoying the Gestapo general, Hogan decided to take things in hand. He was about to appeal to Eberhart but the general had already moved quickly, stopping suddenly in front of the sleeping Englishman as if he had just noticed something.

He stood still for a moment, convinced that the length of the chain left to the prisoner had not permitted him to sit down. In spite of that the Englishman was well and truly seated with his back against the cooler, his legs drawn up against his body, rolled up in a blanket come from who knows where, and quite obviously sound asleep.

At least, he appeared to be asleep… When the German pulled violently on the chain to verify that the lock still held, and it did, the Englishman looked up with annoyance. Annoyed but alert. He had certainly been awake for a while already and the German didn't doubt that this little act had for its sole purpose to make him look like an idiot. He tried nevertheless to keep hold of himself, and went to find the keys to the handcuffs to finally get this prisoner out of his sight.

Newkirk got up, letting the blanket slip against the wall, and held his wrists in the direction of the German, the motion sending the handcuffs falling to the ground before General Eberhart even approached the key.

An astonishing silence fell on the stalag at the absurdity of the scene. The general held the key in the air, his gaze riveted on the handcuffs that rested on the ground, still held by the chain. The Gestapo soldiers had stopped all activity, waiting for a reaction on the part of their general. Those of the Wehrmacht, on the other hand, who knew Newkirk very well, looked away to prevent anyone from seeing that they were starting to smile. With the exception of Klink, who, having turned as white as a sheet, was surely asking himself if he would have the choice between the Eastern Front and a firing squad, to have allowed one of his prisoners to make such a laughingstock out of a general of the Gestapo.

The prisoners present in the compound, on the other hand, couldn't contain their laughter for long. Only Hogan was trying to maintain a minimum of seriousness, hiding his smile behind his hand. The English corporal always had to add something. He enjoyed attracting the attention of his comrades too much and most of all, he liked ridiculing the Germans too much. And that sometimes scared the colonel, who knew that would end by attracting some real problems one of these days.

Not this time, in any case. The general satisfied himself, after a moment of inattention, to turn toward his men to order them to resume their work. He didn't have to play this prisoner's game and show any interest. Even if that interest should earn him another punishment. And then, he had more than that to do. He needed to escort his cargo to Berlin as quickly as possible.

Mostly, he would really have liked to know how the Englishman had gotten himself out of that to free himself, and in spite of himself he was beginning to realize that there might be more to this man than a simple show-off.

A little disappointed by the lack of attention from the German, Newkirk rejoined his companions who welcomed him with a flurry of pats on the back and congratulations on his last number.

oOo

"Achoo!" the Englishman sneezed suddenly.

He sniffled and then sneezed a second time, under the amused glances of his friends. The night had been cool.

Kindly, Lebeau guided him inside the barracks, made him sit down at the table and placed a cup of very hot tea in his hands.

"Thanks, Louis," he thanked him, savoring a sip of the delicious nectar that had been prepared especially for him.

The growling of his stomach reminded him that in addition to being cold, he was also very hungry, and, as if by magic, a plate of crêpes appeared on the table.

Happy to be back in the midst of his friends, Newkirk didn't even notice the presence of Captain Lackey who was keeping to the back, observing the scene with interest, and he devoured the crêpes enthusiastically.

Suddenly recalling something important, he lifted his eyes towards Hogan, who was watching him eat with amusement.

"Did you get my message?" he asked with concern.

"Thanks to our little Frenchman," Hogan replied. "It was a brilliant idea, Newkirk."

Lackey observed how the expression of his subordinate sparkled at that remark. There was a bond between the members of this team that he couldn't understand. And most of all, he couldn't understand why everyone seemed to have absolute confidence in Newkirk. He was only a mere corporal, only promoted because of the war. He didn't even deserve his uniform.

While Hogan and his men related what had been happening and what they had learned in Newkirk's absence, the captain went back down into the tunnel. Only Hogan noticed him, leaving his companions to talk amongst themselves in order to follow the English officer. There were a few things he needed to shine some light on.

No one noticed the flash of worry that crossed Newkirk's face.

**To be continued. **

**Newkirk is unchained but this is not the end of his troubles, oh no ^^ **


	6. Chapter 6 : Shadows of the Past

**Hi, here are some answers about Newkirk and Lackey's past! **

**Chapter 6**

**Shadows of the Past**

"Captain Lackey!" Hogan called as he joined the British officer in his temporary quarters.

It wasn't particularly elegant, but the prisoners of Stalag 13 had nothing better to propose in terms of underground accommodations.

"Colonel?"

"We need to talk. About Newkirk."

Hogan preferred not to beat around the bush. He knew very well that the RAF captain was only waiting for an occasion such as this to say out loud what it was that he resented about the corporal. It couldn't be only a question of class, although Lackey visibly had a problem with Newkirk's modest origins. There just had to be something else. Something that repelled the captain, but more than that, something that made the corporal so ashamed.

If this sentiment of aversion that pitted the two men one against the other posed a risk to the successful completion of the mission, which, given Newkirk's behavior, couldn't help but be the case, Hogan needed to know what it was about. Even if that obliged him to rummage around in the past of one of his friends. And then, if he had accurately assessed Lackey's personality, it would only be a question of time before he would 'accidentally' divulge the source of Newkirk's discomfort in the course of an innocent conversation.

The colonel's suspicions on that subject were confirmed by the fact that the British captain seemed completely ready to answer any questions pertaining to Newkirk, as his satisfied smile proved.

The RAF officer seated himself comfortably on his mattress, watching the American who remained standing, ignoring the chair that was just behind him.

"What would you like to know, Colonel?" inquired the Englishman, knowing full well where the conversation was going to lead them and already enjoying that fact in advance.

"Newkirk is probably the best man I've got," Hogan began.

The captain's amused smile at that remark clearly showed what Lackey was thinking. Hogan didn't waste any time on that detail, and continued.

"He's indispensable to the running of our operation and I'm afraid that your presence, for some reason I don't know, is preventing him from concentrating on his work. I need to know what's happened between the two of you. Why did you force Newkirk to leave your unit?"

Hogan was stunned with disbelief when the Englishman suddenly burst out laughing.

"I have no reason to blame myself, Colonel. On the other hand, I can't say that about the 'best man you've got'."

Hogan frowned, but allowed Lackey to go on.

"I didn't force him to leave my unit. He asked to leave of his own accord. His relationships with his colleagues had become rather strained. My men are good fellows but they can be… let's say a little rough. Definitely when it comes to a scum like your corporal."

Hogan's fist clenched convulsively.

"Watch what you're saying, Captain," he warned Lackey, his gaze boiling. "Don't insult my men right in front of me."

"Your man is nothing but a criminal," the Englishman threw back, not at all impressed by the growing anger of the American colonel. "You're so proud of his talent as a pickpocket, but maybe you should ask yourself where it came from."

"Whatever he might have done in the past has nothing to do with me," Hogan replied.

He knew very well that Newkirk hadn't always been honest in civilian life, and again, that was a euphemism. The Englishman remained discreet enough about his past but he had happened to let a few things slip here and there. And that included thefts and burglaries. Hadn't he always claimed to have seen Alfred Burke, the genial safecracker, practice his artistry over in England? That could only have been the case during the course of a burglary.

There was a chance that he might also have done a little time in prison. That thought sliced at the colonel's heart. He knew how much Newkirk, more than anyone else, was passionate about his freedom. Being locked up had always been a torment for him. And that only reinforced his high estimation of the Englishman, who had renounced his liberty to stay at the stalag to help other prisoners escape and take part in their sabotage operations.

Yes, whatever Lackey could say, nothing would ever lower the confidence he had in Newkirk.

"I knew that he had been in prison when he became attached to my unit, shortly after being promoted to corporal," Lackey continued. "But he seemed to be a good addition so I treated him like any other of my recruits."

Hogan wondered how much the captain had been exaggerating his part in the story. From what he understood about the captain's sentiments against 'cockneys', there was little chance that Newkirk had never had to suffer the consequences of the resentment towards him. But for the moment, he only had the officer's side of the story. He could never force Newkirk into telling his own side. He didn't want to do it, but above all, he suspected that that would force the corporal to go against an order by refusing to speak about his past. Hogan, therefore, was hearing the only version that was at hand.

"He fit right into the team with his pranks and magic tricks. Always looking for attention from the others. My men trusted him, just like any one of the others, but it didn't last long."

Hogan noted to himself that Lackey was making a clear distinction between Newkirk and 'his' men, proof that he had never really considered the corporal like one of the others. It was probably unconscious but it had surely had consequences.

"If Corporal Newkirk lost the trust of the team, Colonel, it's only because he couldn't help following his own nature. We had an assistance fund for the families of the pilots who never returned from the front. A kitty where the men of our barracks were able to put in a little money. I can promise you that there was quite a sum in that box… until Newkirk got his hands on it."

"Newkirk stole that money?" Hogan demanded, not believing it for a second. "Then why didn't he undergo a court martial?"

If the English corporal had really been accused of such a theft, he wouldn't be at the stalag; he wouldn't even be in the army.

"We never recovered the money."

"And of course, Newkirk never admitted it," muttered Hogan, who was beginning to understand the bad feelings between the two Englishmen.

If Newkirk had been falsely accused by Lackey, he hardly would have dared imagine the consequences. Worst of all, the missing money had been intended for the widows and orphans of soldiers killed in combat. The unity between soldiers of the same army was extremely strong; to go against that unity would be suicide.

Hogan remembered very well a scenario he had stumbled upon when he was in London. He had been walking on the base and, cutting past the hangars to get back to his quarters, he had surprised several soldiers in the process of beating up one of their own number. The man on the ground had been paying for the tension he had provoked in the group by telling them again and again that they would never come home again after the war, that they would all die in combat. The other soldiers, who couldn't take it anymore, had decided to teach him a little lesson. An official warning was all those men got after nearly killed one of their own.

Hogan shuddered to imagine Newkirk in the place of that man, lying on the ground, covered with blood, protecting himself as best he could against the blows dealt by those who were supposed to be his friends.

"He didn't deny it either," the RAF captain finally retorted in an even tone.

_Why? _That was what struck Hogan right away, but no sound came from his lips when he realized one thing. What if there was even a grain of truth in what Lackey was saying? Was Newkirk capable of that? After all, he didn't really know him that well…

No. He knew him well enough to know that he was not a man to betray his friends. There surely had to be a reason that had prevented him from protesting against those accusations…

While that flurry of questions spun in the colonel's head, a sudden clearing of a throat pulled him out of his thoughts. Sergeant Andrew Carter was watching the two officers who hadn't seen him approaching. Hogan wondered if he had been able to hear their conversation, but the sergeant's worried feature spoke for themselves. He had heard enough.

"Colonel, the Gestapo is leaving. I thought that… that you'd want to know," Carter babbled, his colonel's hard gaze making him lower his eyes.

Hogan noticed that, and tempered his expression.

"Fine. I'm coming," he said simply.

oOo

Climbing back up to the barracks, closely followed by Carter, Hogan realized that the barracks was empty with the exception of Sergeant Kinchloe who was calmly sipping a cup of coffee and leafing through an old magazine, seated at the wooden table. Without even lifting his eyes, he answered the silent questions of his superior:

"Lebeau went out to verify the direction the Gestapo took. Olsen is already in the tunnel getting ready, and I sent Newkirk to get some rest in your quarters. I told him you wouldn't mind."

"Good work."

Hogan's attention was caught by the sudden opening of the door of the barracks by their little Frenchman.

"They just left!" he announced.

"Which way?" the colonel wanted to know.

"As we expected, mon colonel. East."

"Good, that leaves us just enough time for us to get out to the other side. When they discover that the road's blocked, they'll definitely try to go around by heading west. And we'll be there waiting for them. Louis, go get Olsen, I'll be with you in a minute."

"Oui, mon Colonel," the Frenchman obeyed.

"It's a good plan, but are you sure that going outside the camp in broad daylight isn't too risky?" Kinch intervened, concerned for the safely of his companions.

"That's not what worries me the most," his superior confided. "Eberhart's no idiot. It's likely that he'll recognize it's a trap before we're able to do anything…"

"I'd rather take Louis' suggestion and blow everything up. I don't understand why London is so set on us getting a sample from the shipment."

"Me either," Hogan admitted. "But orders are orders."

While he and Kinch were exchanging their concerns, Hogan spied his other sergeant who was trying very discreetly to get to the door, skirting past the wall behind him.

"Carter!" Hogan barked.

The young American froze and lifted his eyes towards his superior officer, meeting his gaze which, and this reassured him, transparently contained no trace of reproach.

"I'm sorry to have heard your conversation with the captain," he apologized anyway. "I didn't mean to. I mean… I didn't do it on purpose. Um… Colonel."

Hogan was somewhat amused by his man's obvious distress and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"There's no harm done. I only want to make sure that you keep whatever you heard to yourself. Most of all, don't ask Newkirk any questions. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Colonel!" Carter exclaimed, with a solemn salute for his superior officer.

That didn't reassure Hogan very much, but what was done was done. He sighed and headed towards the tunnel to rejoin the men who were going to help him put his plan into action.

As for Kinch, he didn't ask any questions; he was content to observe Carter who, still on his guard, waited for the colonel to disappear under the bunk before breathing again. He knew very well that if he asked the slightest question, Carter would risk breaking the promise he had just made to his superior, and Kinch preferred that such a thing would never be on his account. Most importantly, if he had understood correctly, the conversation overheard by the young American concerned Newkirk, which removed any legitimate right to ask any questions. The lack of privacy that existed between soldiers in the camp killed any hope of having a personal life. All that remained for them were their pasts and their memories, the things that had made them the men they were today. And no right was more sacred than that of keeping that past to themselves.

Unfortunately, even though he could keep from asking any questions, that wasn't the case for everyone.

"Standing guard, Andrew? Are you expecting a visit from an Air Corps general?" the unmistakable accent of their favorite Englishman resonated in the room.

oOo

_It was dark, so dark. Impossible to know what time it was. Was it still daylight outside? And for that matter, what day was it? He didn't know anymore, he was lost._

_Sitting on the frozen floor, with his back against the wall that was just as cold, he closed his eyes so he would be unable to see the darkness, trying to sleep without ever succeeding. Staying seated was all he could do. The ceiling wasn't high enough for an adult man to be able to stand up straight. The room wasn't long enough for him to be able to lie down and stretch out. And most of all, in spite of the lack of space, he had the impression of floating in the emptiness, dark, infinite, and silent._

_He no longer felt the tears that slipped past his closed eyelids._

_He wasn't even sure anymore that he was still alive…_

Newkirk woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had had a nightmare, that he was safe and that daylight pierced the closed shutters, coming in to warm the colonel's quarters with a soft clarity.

The Englishman passed a trembling hand over his damp forehead, cursing himself for his reaction to a simple dream. It had been a long time since he'd done anything like that, he had almost forgotten…

Deciding not to try to catch a few more winks, Newkirk got up, taking in a deep breath to stop the remaining trembling in his body, and decided to rejoin his companions.

When he opened the door, he saw Kinch first, seated at the table. Then his gaze rested on Carter, standing next to the door and, for some unknown reason, on his guard.

"Standing guard, Andrew? Are you expecting a visit from an Air Corps general?" he kidded.

The young American sergeant immediately started at his greeting, throwing an abnormally worried look in the Englishman's direction. He was nervous, and it clearly had something to do with him. Newkirk was far from being an idiot, he understood right away what it must be about.

"Problem, Carter?" he asked in a tone that was no longer quite so friendly.

Carter didn't say anything, looking all around him for a way out of that situation. He might have told himself that it wasn't all that serious. But if the colonel had asked him to keep quiet, he must have a good reason. Andrew looked for some support from Kinch, who only shrugged his shoulders and gave him a look of chagrin.

The Englishman came closer and when he lifted his arm, Carter actually thought he was about to hit him for not answering. But Newkirk only rested his hand against the wall to cut off his avenue of escape, meeting his eyes with an intense gaze. A cold look, but calm. To see such an expression on his friend's face froze the young sergeant's blood. He almost would have preferred being punched. That would have been more like the Newkirk he knew.

Kinch was also getting a little nervous about the way things were going and got to his feet, resting his hand on the Englishman's shoulder to get him to step back a little bit from Carter. Just in case. But Newkirk paid no attention to him, still focused on the young American's gaze.

The Englishman didn't ask any questions. He slowly moved away from the two Americans and quite calmly headed towards the tunnel.

**To be continued. **

**So ? **


	7. Chapter 7 : Like an Unchained Wolf

**Thank you everyone for the reviews, alerts and favorites! All that could not have been without SimoneSez who translate all the story in more or less two weeks! So, do not worry, you will have the all story ^^**

**And now : Newkirk v.s Lackey!**

**Chapter 7**

**Like an Unchained Wolf**

Until that point, everything had gone as planned. The Germans hadn't been able to cross the road ravaged by the 'bombing', and had chosen to turn around and go East. Who would have been able to predict that the second route would also be impassable? With the exception of those responsible, of course.

Three of those responsible were concealing themselves next to the road, attentively watching the reactions of the German soldiers who were getting out of their trucks to evaluate the damage and their chances of getting through. Hogan smiled, satisfied at the turn of events. For once, everything was proceeding according to plan. He was a bit concerned about General Eberhart's reaction. The man was unpredictable and intelligent. Dangerous combination.

At the moment, the Gestapo general was kneeling in front of one of his trucks, running his fingers over the ground that had been torn up by the explosions, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. He suspected something, that was for sure, but trying to figure it out prevented him from seeing the two men discreetly approaching him from behind one of the trucks.

Dressed in Gestapo uniforms, Hogan and Olsen had waited until most of the soldiers had left before they went into action. They approached the second truck nonchalantly, the last of the convoy, doing their best to conceal their faces, slipping their helmets down over their eyes and keeping their backs turned to the Germans as much as possible.

Casually, Hogan tapped the ground with his food. He stopped two meters away from the truck and gave a silent order to Olsen, staying close to the truck, who nodded before heading towards the front of it.

"_Hey, mein Freund. Solltest du etwas zurückschieben_. The other one might run into you when it's turning around," Olsen explained to the driver, hoping that the guy wouldn't realize that he wasn't actually one of their number and would agree to back up his truck a little bit.

While Olsen had the driver's attention, Lebeau came forward, then disappeared underneath the truck's canopy.

Following Olsen's directions, the German driver backed up a few meters, and stopped right on the spot where Hogan had posted himself, thus involuntarily protecting the American's actions from prying eyes, including his own.

Olsen stayed not far from the front of the truck to watch the actions and gestures of the Germans who were waiting for their general to make a decision. The American shuddered as he noticed that Eberhart had his eyes fixed on the truck that had just backed up. He was afraid for an instant that the man had realized that something funny was going on, but fortunately the German's attention was diverted by one of his men. The soldier, standing watch, reported to his superior that they wouldn't be able to get through on that road until it had been repaired.

Realizing how little time they had, Lebeau and Hogan got busy at their own task of recovering as much as they could. With one small movement of his heel on the ground, Hogan opened a small trapdoor hidden in the middle of the road. He tossed everything Lebeau handed him into that small underground cavity. They couldn't allow themselves to take entire crates; the Germans would notice that immediately. The Frenchman opened a few of the cases to take some samples. Documents, mostly, but also two reels of film. He shivered at the thought of what those must contain. Interrogations of members of the French Resistance. Interrogations… a very nice word to describe the atrocities the Gestapo was capable of.

He didn't allow himself to be distracted, and kept passing documents along to the colonel until Olsen rejoined them at the back of the truck to let them know that the Germans were turning around. In a few seconds, the three men had left the area, sliding back into the brush, invisible to the eyes of the Germans who were getting back into their trucks, completely unaware of the underground cache they were tramping over as they passed.

General Eberhart hesitated before getting back into the truck that Hogan and his men had just relieved of some of its cargo. He shifted his gaze towards the trees and brush that bordered the road, pausing at the very spot where Hogan, Lebeau and Olsen were hiding. All three instinctively held their breath, knowing without a doubt that that wouldn't help them if the German had actually seen them.

To their great relief, that wasn't the case, and the general finally got back into the truck, but without losing his suspicious demeanor.

The man was far from an idiot. Sooner or later, he would figure it out.

"That guy gives me the creeps," admitted Corporal Lebeau in a low voice, although all trace of danger had passed.

"I feel exactly the same way," Olsen muttered.

In the same motion, the two men, still lying flat on the grass, one to the left and one to the right of their colonel, turned towards the latter to ask him what he thought about Eberhart. They didn't have to ask the question. The sparkle in their superior's eyes, accented by his sly smile, was enough for them. The colonel liked a challenge. And this was a big one.

Eberhart was both dangerous and brilliant. But Hogan was as well, even more so. Brilliant, he didn't have to prove anymore. Dangerous, yes, he was. Mostly to the enemy, but also to his own men. One only had to look at how his plans sometimes turned out…

All that Lebeau and Olsen could hope for at that moment was that the plan that was forming in the colonel's imagination would be more dangerous for the Germans than for them…

oOo

"Gin!" Carter exclaimed, proud of himself, placing his last cards on the table.

Kinch, who had several more cards in his hand, sighed and wrote the points down on a slip of paper.

"We could always play another game for a change," he suggested. "Poker doesn't appeal to you?"

"Nah, why?" asked the young sergeant, failing to understand. "I'm winning, let's keep going."

_Right, _thought Kinch. _Right. _Without a lot of conviction, he dealt the cards. Carter had incredible luck at this game. With the exception of when he played against Newkirk, but there was nothing so surprising about that. The British corporal rarely lost when it came to cards, no matter what the game.

"Hey! That's funny," Andrew remarked, observing the cards that had just been dealt to him by his opponent.

It didn't take Kinch long to understand what was so funny when Carter laid all his cards out on the table one by one. Four twos and a run of six hearts…

"Gin."

Kinch's face fell. To have that much luck was impossible. If his opponent had been Newkirk, he would have expected some kind of a trick. But Carter? Cheating? No. His innocent smile as he collected the cards confirmed it Andrew was quite simply incapable of cheating.

A barely perceptible cracking sound broke the silence that followed Carter's incredible stroke of luck. The two sergeants turned around with the same motion towards the entrance of the tunnel, but the bunk that lifted remained motionless. Kinch frowned and asked his companion:

"How long ago did Newkirk go down?"

Taking in Kinch's anxious gaze, Carter quickly understood where he was going, worry also washing over him in turn. They never should have let Newkirk go down into the tunnel alone.

"It's been at least ten minutes," the young sergeant said with hesitation.

Ten minutes was a long time. Long enough for something to go out of whack. And their Englishman was the king of putting things out of whack.

The two sergeants sprang up from their chairs, sending them crashing to the floor. They launched themselves towards the tunnel, a terrible presentiment gripping their throats and guts. They should have known. Newkirk wasn't alone in the tunnel…

The muffled noises that reached them as soon as they set foot on the tunnel floor confirmed their fears. The sounds were coming from the section of the tunnel where they had set up guest quarters.

The two of them paused for an instant in front of the scene that unfolded in front of them. Debris that had once been a wooden chair lay strewn on the floor, leaving no doubt as to the origins of the crashing noise the two Americans had heard from upstairs.

The RAF captain was lying on his back, near his bunk, stunned and incapable of making the slightest motion as Newkirk, on top of his superior officer, punched him furiously in the face. Again and again, his fingers stained with red.

The sickening crunch of Lackey's nose snapped Kinch and Carter out of their stunned state. Kinch caught the British corporal around the shoulders, lifting him up to get him off the captain, while Carter knelt next to the officer to reassure himself that the man was still alive. An unintelligible groan confirmed that was the case, and he sighed with relief.

"Carter!" Kinch called, unable to calm Newkirk who continued to struggle like a madman.

He tightened his hold on the Englishman as well as he could manage, taking without a flinch the blows that his friend was involuntarily inflicting upon him as he struggled to break the hold.

"Calm down, Peter. It's me, Kinch. Good god, don't you think you've done enough damage?"

At these words, the Englishman relaxed a little as if he had just realized the situation. He froze, shocked by the sight of his former instructor lying on the floor, his face bloodied.

"Newkirk?" Carter called, more worried by the sudden silence than by the excess of violence that had come before. "Newkirk?" he tried again, without any more success, cautiously approaching the Englishman who had lowered his eyes.

Without even reminding himself that there was a good chance Newkirk wouldn't appreciate the gesture, the young sergeant rested a hand under his chin to force him to look him in the eye. He immediately bit down on his lip, his heart rending at the lost expression of the man he had always looked up to as a role model. Those eyes had lost all their fight, and Carter realized that they were abnormally red. Had he been crying?

The look lasted no more than a fraction of a second; Newkirk regained his senses at the same moment that Kinch relaxed his hold. His demeanor changed completely, more closely resembling the one that his friends knew. But it was nothing but an awkward mask, an imaginary barrier set up between him and the rest of the world.

The gaze that met Carter's then had become calm again, too calm, and that made the young American shiver.

"I think I did something stupid," the Englishman said simply, looking again in the direction of his superior officer sprawled on the ground.

There was no trace of regret in his tone and what he said next nailed his companions to the spot.

"The guv'nor isn't gonna like this…"

And he smiled, as if what had just happened was nothing but one more joke to add to his repertoire.

oOo

When Captain Lackey of the RAF regained consciousness, he was still lying on the ground. Alone. He raised himself up with difficulty, the pain making his head spin. Gently, he probed his face to evaluate the damage.

To the back of his head, the sticky blood that clung to his fingers indicated to him that he must have struck a rock when the corporal had jumped on top of him. Considering the pain that spread through his jaw and his apparently broken nose, his loss of consciousness hadn't stopped the cockney from continuing.

To lose it like that with a superior officer. That only served to confirm what Lackey had always thought of Newkirk. He didn't belong in the army. He was aware of having provoked him but that didn't excuse his violent reaction in any way. He would pay for that.

Lackey stood up painfully to then sit down on his mattress, reeling with nausea that he fought to control. That was a sign of a probable concussion.

"Captain?"

The voice made him jump a bit. He hadn't seen Sergeant Kinchloe approaching. He was happy to see that his visitor had brought along a first aid kit. The American seemed concerned, but Lackey figured that that concern had less to do with his wounds than his aggressor. In a way, the RAF captain admired the incredible bond that seemed to exist between the men of this stalag, but that didn't change anything about his feelings toward Newkirk. Especially not after what had just happened.

"I hope you're going to take the necessary measures, Sergeant," he said while Kinch blotted carefully at his wounds with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

"That's not my job. Colonel Hogan is responsible for the men in this camp," the American replied in a neutral tone.

In spite of Kinchloe's detached demeanor, it wasn't difficult to decode his thoughts. As far as he was concerned, Lackey wasn't the victim. And that was in spite of the fact that he knew nothing of his shared past with Newkirk.

That idea made the captain sigh in spite of himself. He didn't understand the faith that everyone seemed to have in Newkirk. Even before, when he'd been under his command, he had always seemed to be able to draw others to him, and still, Lackey couldn't understand the reason. To him, the corporal had always been nothing but a liar and a goldbrick. An insolent thief, who had just added violence to his resumé.

oOo

In spite of the sun that was already quite high in the sky, and thanks to the inattention caused by the Gestapo's return to Stalag 13, Hogan, Lebeau and Olsen could use the emergency tunnel without a problem. The guards were too busy watching the Gestapo trucks that were passing through the gates to be concerned with what could be happened just a few feet away from the barbed wire.

Everything had gone as Hogan had planned, right down to the minute, which had put him in a particularly good mood. That wasn't going to last long. The three men had barely had time to exchange their German uniforms for those of their own respective armies when an RAF captain stormed in,, his face badly swollen and his nose in lamentable condition. Behind the Englishman, an extremely ill-at-ease Kinch shifted from one foot to the other with his gaze fixed firmly on his feet.

"The best man you've got, eh?" the captain remarked snidely, recalling the conversation he and Hogan had had earlier in the day.

The U.S. Air Corps colonel didn't answer, but turned towards his sergeant, who was avoiding having to make any eye contact with his superior officer as much as possible. The colonel rarely got angry, but when it did happen…

"Where is he?" Hogan demanded coldly, snapping out each word, the tone of his voice making each one of his men shudder with apprehension.

**To be continued. **

**Who has pity for Lackey? Well, not me ;) Thanks for reading. **


	8. Chapter 8 : Irreparable

**Chapter 8**

**Irreparable**

When he saw Colonel Hogan come up out of the tunnel, Carter's first instinct was to hide in a corner of the room in the hope of escaping his superior's fury. But knowing very well against whom that anger was directed, the young sergeant dismissed his survival instinct and voluntarily placed himself right in the colonel's path.

Hogan knew immediately that Newkirk wasn't in the area, so he headed towards the barracks door when Carter placed himself in the way.

"Carter, do you know where Newkirk is?" he demanded, anger making his voice shake.

"He… he went out…"

The answer not really helping much, Hogan took a step to the side to go around his sergeant and go on the hunt for his corporal to demand an explanation as to his behavior. He didn't expect that Carter would also take a step to the side, blocking his passage anew, and nearly running into him.

Hogan blinked, surprised.

Carter had to muster up all his courage to look the colonel in the eye and tell him what he had in his heart.

"Don't be too harsh on Newkirk. I'm sure he didn't mean to do that to the captain."

The absurdity of those words might have made the colonel smile. It was difficult to hit someone accidentally, not to mention the fact that, judging from Lackey's ravaged features, Newkirk hadn't been satisfied with just one punch.

The sincerity that he read on the young man's face prevented him from commenting on it. He satisfied himself with pushing Carter gently aside to be able to reach the door and then left on his quest to find his mule-headed corporal.

Bizarrely, the anger that had filled him a few seconds earlier had dissipated. The Carter effect.

But he didn't intend to sweep it under the rug. The situation was much too serious. Well, from his point of view in any case. A point of view which was far from being shared by all…

"Colonel Hogan!" called Jones as he came up to him, interrupting a football game pitting some English against some Americans.

The interruption of the game didn't seem to be his primary concern, in spite of the protests and groans of the other players.

"Say, Colonel, is it true that Newkirk hit the captain?"

The pleased tone in which he delivered those words earned him a furious look from the senior POW officer.

_Am I the only one who thinks that hitting a superior officer isn't a good thing? _wondered Hogan, who was seriously starting to feel like one of the bad guys in this story. Which, by his status as an officer, was already more or less the case. For most of the prisoners at the stalag, officers weren't exactly people to be trusted, whatever army they happened to be in. They weren't completely wrong, but he still wasn't going to paint them all with the same brush. Actually, fortunately for him and as Newkirk so eloquently put it, Colonel Hogan was 'an officer who was pretty easy to put up with'. Which, coming from the corporal, was quite a compliment.

"Why?"

"I saw him a few minutes ago. He had blood on his hands and when I asked him if he was hurt, he said it was the captain's blood."

Which didn't seem to particularly bother the Englishman.

"Jones?" he asked calmly, "you understand that Newkirk risks a court martial for that."

The British soldier's face darkened and then he responded in all sincerity:

"Yes. But it would probably be worth the trouble. Most of the fellows see Captain Lackey as a hero. He's one of our best pilots, but…" Jones interrupted himself, throwing a hesitant look at Hogan, who motioned to him to continue with a nod of his head.

"I don't know if you've heard what he told us about Newkirk, sir, that he'd quit his unit…"

Hogan would have found it difficult to forget what Lackey had told him about Newkirk's voluntary departure due to 'a little rough' behavior from his colleagues…

"The captain, he trains fighter pilots. And Newkirk, he got stuck in a bomber, just a regular member of the crew. Newkirk isn't the type to let that happen. For him to feel obliged to request a transfer, the captain must have had something to do with it."

Hogan didn't doubt it. The image of that man being beaten to a pulp by his companions flashed again in his memory. But did it really have something to do with that story of the stolen money, or did he have to go still farther? It was obvious that Lackey had never been able to stand the corporal, and that had been well before the aforementioned theft. And then, Hogan had seen too many of the things his corporal was capable of to be able to dismiss Lackey entirely. Until this morning… for Newkirk to be in that kind of rage, something else surely had to have happened. Something that didn't have anything at all to do with the incident of the stolen money.

"In your opinion, would Captain Lackey have made up some story just to get rid of Newkirk?"

"Sir," the soldier responded seriously, "he's an officer. You never question the word of an officer."

The phrase rang so false that Hogan immediately understood its message.

At that, Jones saluted the colonel respectfully but, while he was returning to his football game to the great pleasure of his teammates, he suddenly remembered something:

"If you're looking for Newkirk, Colonel, I saw him hanging around the side of Barracks 6."

oOo

Discreetly, sitting with his back to the wall of his barracks, Carter watched the Germans who were again commandeering the cooler to store their cargo. As the colonel had expected, General Eberhart was making his men count the crates. It was obvious that he suspected something. But the number was still the same, and as long as the soldiers didn't open the boxes to check the contents, it was impossible to see that some of the documents and films were missing. And it was equally impossible to see that a few things that hadn't been in the crates earlier had been added.

In spite of those precautions, Eberhart didn't seem satisfied, throwing inquisitive looks in the direction of the prisoners who were relaxing in the faint warmth of the April sun, playing ball or cards in the compound. Carter even saw him bend down underneath the trucks to check that nothing was wrong. Yes, he definitely suspected something. It had to be said that it was quite the coincidence that the bombings had hit, by chance, the only two sections of road leading to Stalag 13…

Sergeant Kinchloe and Corporal Lebeau rejoined him while he continued to watch the actions and gestures of the Germans, but his thoughts were nonetheless preoccupied by something completely different.

"You think it'll be okay for Newkirk?" the young man asked, thoughtful, without even looking at his companions.

"For now, yes," Kinch replied. "But once he gets back to England…"

"A court martial," Lebeau finished.

"You think the captain will go that far?"

"You can be court martialed for a lot less than that, Carter. He nearly disfigured the captain and honestly, I don't think that Lackey would have the slightest remorse about it."

Kinch had no reason to lie to the young American. Anyway, Carter already knew perfectly well that anybody who attacked an officer could be brought up on charges.

"What an idiot," the Frenchman murmured to himself, thinking about the situation his English friend had gotten himself into.

"We could talk to Captain Lackey, couldn't we?" asked Carter, his eyes full of hope.

Lebeau sighed at the American's naïveté and shook his head.

"The only way would be to finish what Newkirk started," he said.

Carter didn't reply to that remark, preferring to consider it quietly. The dismal outlook of his two companions seemed to really make him need to take the possibility seriously.

"Carter!" Lebeau reprimanded him, hitting him on the arm. "We're not going to assassinate the captain!"

"I sure hope not!" an amused voice spoke up.

Lebeau couldn't stop the red flush that covered his cheeks when he realized that he had nearly shouted that last sentence, attracting the attention of several prisoners. The one that had just spoken was leaving the barracks and approaching the three of them with a smile on his face.

Sergeant Wilson. Kinch had asked him to come take a look at Lackey's injuries.

"A broken nose and a slight concussion. The captain will live. Although to listen to you, I'm not sure anymore if that's a good thing or a bad thing," Wilson joked.

oOo

The only two occupants of Barracks 6 who preferred the calm of their quarters to the sunshine outside had quickly changed their minds when they saw Corporal Newkirk come in. His dark expression convinced them to leave the comfort of their bunks as fast as they could go. Everyone in the camp knew the Englishman and his moods. Even though he was good company most of the time, it was best not to be in the vicinity when his mood changed.

Newkirk didn't pay any attention to the two men who went out. All he wanted was a place to think for a few minutes without being disturbed. He knew that Colonel Hogan wouldn't be long returning from the mission, and he really didn't want to have to face him in this condition. He hadn't been able to calm down, his heart threatened to tear itself out of his chest with every beat. He didn't even know anymore exactly what he was feeling, his emotions were all mixed up to form this indigestible ball that clutched at his stomach. Relief, guilt, fear…

And his hands. They were still red. The face bleeds easily, and breaking the captain's nose had definitely helped in the bleeding department. In spite of his confusion, the Englishman couldn't help the sadistic smile that twisted his lips. The sight of the proud RAF captain with a mangled nose hadn't displeased him.

But that instant of satisfaction wouldn't last long. Instinctively clenching his fist at the memory of the blows he'd delivered, he immediately felt the undesirable aftereffects. A sharp pain that the adrenaline rush had been able to cover up to that point exploded in his right hand. He really must have hit him hard. Newkirk held his injured hand in front of his eyes and tried again to flex his fingers, more gently this time. It didn't keep the pain from spreading throughout his bones.

Spotting the sink that stood between two bunks, Newkirk decided to wash his hands. If the colonel was going to come and teach him a lesson, it would be better if he didn't find him covered with blood. Giving the impression of a bloodthirsty killer was probably not going to count in his favor. Newkirk, in the process of turning on the faucet, stopped his motion. And what if he _had _killed him? If Carter and Kinch hadn't intervened, would he have gone that far? Would he have been able to stop himself? At that thought, the Englishman shivered and was gripped by a wave of dizziness that made him clutch the sink for support.

_Good God, _he thought, _you've gone too far this time, pal. The guv'nor's going to be furious… and all that for what, eh? For nothing. What an imbecile you are, Peter. Imbecile and useless…_

The cold water slipped over his hands, turning red before disappearing into the drain. Gradually, the scarlet traces disappeared with the action of the soap, but the Englishman kept rubbing his skin, ignoring the pain in his right hand, his gaze plunged into a past that in the here and now appeared to him to have been completely futile…

[flash back]

The dozen recruits destined to become fighter pilots were relaxing in the barracks. The day had been long and difficult, between classes in theory and physical training. Captain Lackey let nothing slip past. It was hard, but this was the only way they would become the best.

Newkirk had the lowest rank and was also the only cockney of the band, but that hadn't prevented him from fitting right in. He had always had the ability to form friendships with the people who surrounded him. And even if he sometimes went a little too far, only the end result counted. He didn't want to be alone. He had been alone too long. So he did his best, obeyed orders, and got along with the other recruits, entertaining them with his tricks and sleight of hand.

He had quickly become a part of the unit and had begun to understand that the army was like a big family. Each one was there to cover the others, they protected each other and helped one another. Whatever happened. In theory, at least. If Newkirk was never hassled by the other men in the unit, with the exception of a few jokes about his accent, that wasn't the case with the young student officer Joshua Mason.

The boy was the youngest in the group but one of the highest in rank, which caused some jealousy. Nothing too bad, a little teasing, a few youthful pranks. Newkirk had never participated but neither had he done anything to stop his companions from having their fun, even though he could see how much it bothered the young man. The boy hadn't been very tall and his somewhat fragile appearance contrasted considerably with his military rank, and didn't help him much with his self-confidence.

Mason kept to himself, outside of the group, without understanding that that risked making things worse. Tonight was no exception.

Most of the men were together around the table that was in a corner of the room, all looking intently at the three upside-down cards in front of their resident magician. As for Mason, he was off by himself lying on his bunk, his nose in a book.

Although he was concentrating on his act, Newkirk had noticed that the boy hadn't actually turned any pages of the book for a while yet. He knew that the young officer was dying to join his comrades to try his luck at the corporal's game, but the fear of rejection kept him from it. He was content to observe from a distance.

"Two jacks, one queen, find the queen!" Newkirk dared them, amused at the confusion of his comrades who had never yet been able to lay their hands on the queen in question.

"Are you sure you didn't take out the queen?" one of the soldiers suspected.

"Well, why don't you see for yourself, Patterson?" the corporal invited, a smile on his lips.

Still suspicious, and keeping one eye on Newkirk just in case, Patterson turned the three cards over one by one. A jack of spades, a jack of clubs, and… a queen of hearts.

"Okay," he admitted, defeated, looking with a perplexed expression at the cards on the table. "You've got me, Newkirk, but there's gotta be a trick to it."

"Oh yeah?" the corporal asked with an innocence that didn't fool anybody; his sly smile probably had to be there for some reason.

A tall, blond sergeant with a wide smile that had already conquered quite a number of young ladies, amused by Newkirk's behavior, came up behind him to lightly ruffle his hair.

"That's our little cockney," he kidded. "Always with a card up his sleeve!"

"Hey!" Newkirk protested, pushing the sergeant's hand away to smooth his hair back into place. "There's no card up my sleeve!"

At that, he rolled up one of his sleeves, letting about twenty cards fall to the table, provoking laughter from everyone. He even managed to obtain a slight smile from young Mason. It was about time, after all the trouble he'd gone to!

"What do you say to going into town for a while," Patterson suggested all of a sudden. "It's Saturday, there must be a bunch of birds waiting just for us."

Several whistles echoed out at that proposition, although Lackey's name was muttered by a few worried soldiers.

"Nah, he's not going to keep us from having a little fun!" Patterson replied. "Let's go, boys, be brave!"

This time, he was followed by most of the men, Newkirk included. He hadn't been able to enjoy the company of a pretty girl since he'd joined this unit. And he was beginning to miss it.

Only the young student officer Mason didn't seem very enthusiastic about the idea of a little trip into town. And Newkirk wasn't the only one who had noticed that.

"Well, Mason, have you decided?" tossed out the sergeant who was behind Newkirk, quickly echoed by the other members of the unit.

"I'd rather stay here," the young man responded, lowering his eyes. His reaction made Newkirk sigh. That boy had the highest rank of any of them, and he wasn't even able to look his mates in the eye…

Mates who took advantage of his lack of conviction to try to pull the boy along with them, taking hold of his arm to pull him off his bunk.

"Come on, little fellow, come with us. We'll find a pretty girl just for you," one of them tried to convince him.

"I bet he's still a virgin," called out one of the future pilots.

"At twenty years old, that would be pretty sad!" another retorted, displaying his amusement.

Seeing him incapable of defending himself and being dragged along like a rag doll towards the barracks door, Newkirk suddenly felt a rush of sympathy for the young Englishman. The corporal still took his time to put his cards back into their box before intervening:

"I think I'm going to stay here. I don't feel too well and if it gets any worse and Lackey notices, he'll have it in for me tomorrow."

"But we won't be able to have any fun if we don't all go," said the sergeant who had ruffled his hair. "And we're counting on your magic tricks to entertain the girls."

"You can go without me, Kyle," Newkirk answered directly.

"If he's sick, we can't force him to come along," Patterson remarked.

"That's right," added another soldier. "Get some rest, Newkirk. We'll try and sneak you back a bottle of whiskey."

"Thanks. I'll probably be a bit bored, but I'll survive."

Newkirk punctuated each of his words with a look in Mason's direction, hoping with all his heart that he'd seize the lifeline he offered and all his efforts wouldn't go to waste. Fortunately, even if the boy wasn't very brave, he was intelligent, and although it surprised him, it didn't take long for him to realize that the corporal was putting on an act for his benefit.

"I could stay, if you like," he suggested.

Newkirk agreed and invited him to join him at the table where he was still seated. No one tried to stop Mason. They couldn't prevent him from staying if it was to keep one of their own company. Of course, they all suspected that Newkirk wasn't really sick, but, after all, if the two men wanted to stay here bored in the barracks instead of going out, it wasn't their problem.

The team of future pilots, leaving two of their members behind with some reluctance, and completely ignoring Captain Lackey's rules regarding curfew, finally left the barracks. Relieved, Mason sat down facing Newkirk.

Thanks, for… well, for getting me out of that," stammered the young man.

_Hopeless, _thought Newkirk, shaking his head from left to right while making three cards appear out of nowhere.

"Two jacks, one queen, where's the queen?"

[end flash back]

It was the first time that he'd helped the young Englishman but it had been far from the last. If Newkirk had gone out with the other members of his unit that evening everything would have been different…

**To be continued. **

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	9. Chapter 9 : Guilty of Loyalty

**Hi! And now the confrontation between Hogan and Newkirk! **

**Chapter 9**

**Guilty of Loyalty**

That evening, he had made a choice. He had decided to protect young Joshua Mason, whatever it cost him… He could have ignored the solitude and the boy's distress, but he hadn't done that, and today, he regretted it.

The cold water stopped running over Newkirk's hands as the images of the past were erased little by little, leaving nothing behind them but the bitter taste of the present.

"Josh…" the Englishman sighed, eyeing the bruise that was beginning to form on the back of his right hand.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the barracks door open behind him, and he gave a startled jump when he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

"Colonel!" he shouted, in a voice that was a little sharper than he would have liked, as he recognized the man who stood behind him.

Instinctively, he stepped away from his superior, stumbling against one of the bunks and ending up seated on the mattress.

Hogan watched his corporal's reaction without saying a word. He had the impression of being face to face with a wild animal, wounded and caught in a trap. Newkirk's burning gaze finally crossed his own and Hogan was surprised at the ease with which Newkirk succeeded in faking the feeling of guilt.

The Englishman knew that the reprimand that was about to follow was justified, but strangely, no such reproach came from the colonel's mouth. It was ridiculous, but underneath, Hogan had no idea at all what he was supposed to say. Part of that was due to the fact that he didn't really know exactly what had happened in the tunnel.

He wasn't really expecting Newkirk to suddenly confide in him.

"I've never been anything but a good-for-nothing, Colonel," the Englishman murmured as he looked his superior right in the eye, "but that guy… he made me feel something right down at the bottom of my guts."

A grimace of disgust played about Newkirk's lips when he spoke of his former instructor. The Englishman spoke only very rarely about himself, but this situation left him no choice. And also, he didn't want the colonel to lose the confidence that he had in him, as he had in the other members of the team.

Newkirk paused, again hesitating to confide in the colonel as he had been learning to do. To encourage him to continue, Hogan pulled up a chair and sat down with his back to the table that sat in the corner of the room opposite from the bunk that Newkirk was sitting on. The Englishman's face had been hidden from him behind the support post of the bunk, but he could still see his hands. Newkirk might feel more at ease in speaking with that distance between them.

Finally, Newkirk made up his mind:

"I know that Lackey told you that I was in prison before I joined the army. One year for pickpocketing. I only did half, but it was still too much. Well, for starters, doesn't it bother you to have a criminal on your team?"

It was true that Newkirk's talents in the area of theft had been an indispensable asset to the success of a good number of missions. Hogan couldn't deny it.

"It bothers me," he said at last.

Newkirk's face fell, but he didn't have the time to wonder if the colonel really thought what he had just said when he added in an amused tone:

"It bothers me to be in command of a thief… who's already gotten caught."

That remark had the desired effect. The tension melted out of the Englishman's shoulders, and he laughed at being so easily duped, if only for a second, by his superior.

"If that's all it is, guv'nor, I can promise you that I'll do everything I can to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Good," Hogan responded with a smile.

More relaxed after realizing that the colonel wasn't going to judge him for what he was, Newkirk continued his tale:

"In prison, there was an RAF lieutenant. A great guy, honest, and respected by everyone. A kind of a hero, if you leave out the double murder… A fight that went bad if I'm remembering right, but that's not important. He told me once that I'd make a good soldier. That made me laugh at the time, but the more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. So when I got out, I enlisted. It was the best way I knew to stay on the right road. And I guess my story is like a lot of other guys'. With the war and all, I got promoted to corporal pretty fast, and they offered me a chance to become a pilot. The first air raids on Germany had killed a lot of our boys and they didn't have enough officers to replace them…"

The Englishman's voice seemed very far away when he spoke of the time that seemed so long ago. Hogan well understood that feeling. He too sometimes had the impression to have always been a prisoner in this camp, even if he could get out and get some air whenever he felt like it. In those moments, the memory of his country, of his family, seemed to be something out of a dream.

"I saw right away that the captain had a problem with me. Because I'd been in prison, because I was a cockney. As far as he was concerned I'd never have a place in his elite unit, but I never gave him a chance to prove that. Until the theft."

"The money for the pilots' families," Hogan couldn't resist filling in. And as Newkirk didn't seem to want to continue, expecting that Lackey had already told him all about it, the colonel added:

"I know you, Newkirk; you didn't take it."

He'd been convinced. At least, he certainly hoped that he'd been convinced.

Newkirk's fists clenched; his shoulders slumped, as he muttered:

"You don't know me. If you really believed what you're sayin', you don't know me."

"Newkirk…"

The corporal stood up and looked his superior right in the eye.

"You're right, I didn't take it. Not that time, but I'm still responsible."

"Who are you trying to protect?" asked the colonel, who knew that the only good reason for Newkirk not to state his innocence, what little he might be innocent of, was that he was protecting the real thief.

The Englishman seemed surprised at the colonel's logic and thought a moment before making up his mind.

"Well, that doesn't really matter now."

He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the senior POW officer, crossing his hands on the table. Spying a few cards that were spread out there, the rest of the deck having doubtless been lost or too beaten up, Newkirk drew one. A queen of hearts…

"Josh Mason. He was a bloke in my unit. A smart kid, they made him an officer at nineteen. But he wasn't meant to be a soldier… He was too nice, a bit like Carter; he just couldn't seem to live up to his rank and make others respect him. The fellows teased him a lot for that. Not in such a bad way, but it was still too much for him."

Newkirk made the card disappear and then reappear between his fingers several times before finally stopping, the pain in his right hand forcing him to put the card back down on the table. Colonel Hogan wasn't blind; he had seen the vivid mark that had spread across the back of his hand, and you didn't have to be a genius to guess how the Englishman had hurt himself.

"He was a good kid. He didn't want to fight; he was terrified at the idea of piloting a fighter plane. So I promised him that I'd look after him and that nothing would happen to him as long as I had his back…"

Newkirk lowered his eyes to the table, afraid that the colonel would be able to see the guilt that was reflected in them.

"He told me he wanted to be a doctor one day, and I'm sure he would have been able to. He was bright enough for that. Although, when your dad's a general, that's all it takes for the kid to have to cross out his own dreams. I told him to speak to his dad about it but he didn't want to disappoint him."

"And he stole the money so he could get away," Hogan finished.

"Josh did it without thinking. He didn't leave. I thought he was likely to do something stupid so I followed him and I stopped him before he got out of the barracks. I didn't want him to get caught as a deserter, he would have been executed for that… The theft was discovered almost right away and the alert went out. I told the kid to hide. If they found me alone in a deserted barracks, I knew that nobody would ransack the place… I let myself get caught and Lackey didn't take long drawing his own conclusions. And since the money was never found, the captain was convinced that I'd hidden it away somewhere. And believe me, he did everything he could think of to make me tell him where."

"The kid never turned himself in?" Hogan could hardly believe that anyone could let a friend be accused in his place.

Newkirk lifted his gaze in the colonel's direction, a gaze that was hard and incontrovertible.

"I forbid him to. I was used to being treated like a criminal. For him, he couldn't have stood it… he wasn't strong enough…"

And with that, Hogan suddenly understood the hostility that was coming from the Englishman, the guilt that he was reading in his eyes.

"What happened to him?"

_He was a coward; we found him hanging at the end of a rope in the barracks. He'd rather run away than fight._

Newkirk clenched his fist as Lackey's words once again came back into his memory. He'd gone to see him to apologize for his behavior, to speak with him in spite of the resentment that he felt about him. He'd done that for Colonel Hogan and for the rest of the team, to keep his feelings from jeopardizing the success of the mission. And he'd asked him for any news about young Mason. In his heart, he'd suspected that the boy was probably no longer of this world. So many pilots had been shot down by the enemy, both British and Germans. But not like that.

If he hadn't stood up for him, if he hadn't stopped him from running away, if he hadn't let himself be accused in his place, Joshua wouldn't have found himself with his back to the wall. He would probably still be alive… And as for himself, he wouldn't have had to be subjected to all that. For nothing.

_A coward. _The last straw. The captain hadn't even had time to see the blow coming.

"He's dead," was all the Englishman had to say. "And me, I'm goin' back to prison. Well, that won't change much. Even if this here isn't almost the same thing. Anyway, after what I did to the captain, I'll understand if you don't want me on the team anymore."

Slowly, the colonel got up from his chair and approached his corporal, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't say things like that, Newkirk. You're the best bait I've got."

At that, the American let the Englishman think about his words. Something that, given his stressed condition, took a little bit of time.

"Bait?" Newkirk finally spoke up, suddenly with a very bad feeling.

No explanation came to reassure his doubts; the colonel had already left the barracks.

oOo

_Newkirk, you idiot… __Who could blame you for being too loyal? _the colonel thought to himself as he left Barracks 6.

After hearing the Englishman come clean about his past, the senior POW officer hadn't had the nerve to reproach him. In any case, Newkirk knew very well what he was facing at the present time and even if Hogan couldn't justify the violence that he'd displayed towards a superior officer, he couldn't stay mad at him either. Not after what he had just heard. Even if the corporal's version had certainly been lacking in some details.

Hogan put his concern for the pickpocket out of his mind for the moment in order to focus on the current mission, saluting the Luftwaffe guard posted at the entrance to Colonel Klink's office before entering.

Hilda, always faithfully at her post, lifted her eyes from her paperwork to identify the visitor, and blushed when she saw who it was. Hogan gave her one of the cheerful smiles he was so good at and placed his finger on the young woman's lips to request her silence. He then approached the door to the commandant's office and put his ear to it.

As expected, Colonel Klink wasn't alone. Although he doubtless would have preferred to be, the company of a Gestapo general and of Eberhart in particular not being the most pleasant.

"Of course," Hogan heard, immediately recognizing the sycophantic tone of the camp commandant. "You may stay here until the road is passable. It's a pleasure to have you with us, and if I can be of any help to you at all…"

That was the perfect moment!

The American colonel gave the door a hard push to open it, adopting an outraged demeanor and completely ignoring the presence of the Gestapo general as he passed right in front of him and rested both hands firmly on Klink's desk.

"This is intolerable!" he shouted before a single word had had the chance to make it out of Klink's wide-open mouth.

"The prisoners may interrupt you in your office whenever they like, Klink? And you keep telling me that this stalag is the most secure in all of Germany?" the general put in, visibly dissatisfied at the lack of tight security in the camp.

_Good, _Hogan said to himself. _The quicker he gets back to Berlin, the better it'll be for our operation._

Pretending to ignore the general's intervention, Hogan continued on the fly:

"You can't let Schultz do that; it's against the Geneva Convention."

The camp commandant fixed his gaze on the senior POW officer, not understanding the least bit of what he was talking about.

"Schultz?" he asked. "What's he done now?"

"He asked me to form a work crew to fix the road. You haven't got the right to force prisoners of war to work! We don't have anything to do with the damage on that road, there's no reason for my men to have to repair it."

"To be correct, it was your Allies who bombed that area. So it would be logical for you to repair the damage. I must admit that Schultz may have had a good idea for a change, as surprising as that seems…"

Cutting short any unnecessary reflection on the German colonel's part, reflection that could be very damaging to the success of his plan, Hogan adopted a scandalized attitude.

"You don't expect _me _to form the work crew!"

Klink always enjoyed it when he thought he had triumphed over the American, which was astonishingly rare in spite of the fact that he was supposed to be a prisoner. The hardest part for Hogan was to lead him to believe that he really had complete power over his prisoners, which in any other camp would have been the case. But Stalag 13 had an asset that the others didn't have: U.S. Army Air Corps Colonel Robert Hogan. Of course, the fact that the camp commandant was a complete idiot made the job a little easier.

A slight sadistic gleam came to the colonel's eye, and Hogan knew that he'd won.

"You will do exactly as Schultz said. Choose a dozen volunteers, whether they are or not. Be at the front gate at exactly two o'clock."

"But…" Colonel Hogan began, in a purposely vain attempt to change the German's mind.

"Unless you would prefer that your men don't have showers or white bread for the next week."

Hogan threw him a dour look but didn't say anything, letting Klink believe that he had just succeeded in getting the better of him.

The German colonel lifted a proud gaze in the direction of the Gestapo general who had remained silent during the exchange, but the grimace of disgust on his face prevented the colonel from fully savoring his victory over the American, whom he dismissed with a sharp motion of his hand.

_That was almost too easy, _Hogan congratulated himself without losing his defeated expression, leaving the room with his head lowered and his shoulders heavy with the weight of defeat, giving a brief salute before slamming the door shut behind him to add a little bit of drama to the scenario.

One more small stone to add to the building that was his plan.

But it was far from being complete. It would only take one badly-placed stone and the whole edifice could crumble. And that didn't only concern the mission. The entire organization would be in jeopardy if he made the slightest error. Or if one of his men were too distracted by demons from his past to follow orders to the letter…

**To be continued.**

**Thank you for reading, I hope you will continue to enjoy it. You will if you like to see the poor Peter suffer. Well, we all do, no? Or Am I the only crazy one here ? ;) The next chapter will be more funny though. **


	10. 10 : When the Rabbit becomes the Wolf

**Hi, Here is a chapter a little more funny than the others, the breathe a little before what is coming next ;) **

**Thanks for reading everyone!**

**Chapter 10**

**When the Rabbit Becomes the Wolf**

_Why me? _Newkirk sighed to himself as he stuck the shovel into the ground, then tossed the dirt into one of the big holes that lined the road. Of course he knew very well why the colonel had chosen him for this detail, and he hadn't dared to contradict that decision. The colonel was understanding but not to an excessive degree, and he himself was not suicidal.

Although his role in this mission was just as likely to take him straight to heaven. In the best-case scenario…

_Bait… I knew it would turn out to mean something like that._

"_Schnell_!" shouted one of the guards who was overseeing the work of the prisoners.

Newkirk dug into the dirt a bit more quickly to show his cooperation. Until the guard who had spoken to him turned his back. Then he stuck the shovel into the ground to lean his arm on it while he looked around at the scenery.

Three Gestapo guards, two from the Luftwaffe, and that entire group watched over by Schultz and Eberhart.

All that just to keep an eye on Colonel Hogan and the seven men he had chosen to repair the damage to the road. The American had wanted to exclude all the soldiers, apart from himself, who had dug up the road the night before to make it impassable. Except that when he had described his plan and particularly the role to be played by Newkirk, Lebeau had immediately volunteered to come along.

"I don't want an Englishman taking the credit for this success of this mission," the Frenchman had claimed, but nobody was fooled; what he wanted was to keep an eye on his friend. Nobody could blame him for that.

As for Hogan, he had other concerns. There was only a fifty percent chance that the Gestapo general would decide to supervise their work rather than stay in camp to watch over his cargo. His presence was vital to the success of Hogan's mission. Of course he had a few arguments in reserve to convince the general to survey them himself to make sure the work went smoothly, but that wouldn't necessarily have guaranteed success. However, he hadn't needed to resort to that.

In the end, two things had convinced the general to accompany the prisoners outside the camp: his desire to leave Stalag 13 as soon as possible, and Newkirk's presence among the 'volunteers'. The interest the German had in the British corporal hadn't escaped Hogan's notice, and he was counting on making the most of it.

"You think it will be all right, _mon colonel_?"

"Don't worry, Louis. Newkirk knows exactly what he has to do."

"It's not Newkirk that worries me, but the plan…" murmured Lebeau so that only his superior officer could hear.

"What have you got against my plans? Except for one or two details, it's perfect." The colonel's exaggerated self-assurance earned him a dour look from the French corporal. 'Except for one or two details'; that was far from reassuring.

oOo

Sergeants Kinchloe and Carter had stayed at the stalag and were both waiting in the tunnel, near the radio, for news from their companions. Kinch sat in front of the radio, concentrating on the crackling from his headset. Carter stood right behind him, fidgeting with both impatience and worry. He was nervously thumping on a stick of dynamite without realizing that it was a pretty unstable explosive and that by handling it like that he risked blowing the whole place sky high.

"You want to put that down before you kill us all, Sergeant?" suggested a voice coming from nearby in the tunnel.

Following the gaze of Captain Lackey, who had just joined them, Kinch nearly had a heart attack when he saw what Carter was playing with and tore it from his hands to place it very gently on the desk.

"Carter!" he berated him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Oh," was all the sergeant said. "You know, that won't make it explode."

"Oh yeah? You've already tried it?"

"Any news from Colonel Hogan?" asked Lackey as he approached the two Americans, cutting their argument short.

"Not yet," Kinch responded, adding a negative shake of his head, and avoiding actually looking the Englishman in the eye.

"They'll do it, all right," Carter assured him. "Newkirk's the best." He punctuated those last words with a look of defiance in the captain's direction.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

The words weren't very convincing, and that was further confirmed when the English captain added:

"His actions to this point are far from exemplary."

His swollen face bore witness to that. Although he might have been asking for it, the corporal should never have laid a hand on him. And nothing could change Lackey's opinion of Newkirk. In his eyes, he would never be a soldier of the Royal Air Force.

The young sergeant's reaction surprised him almost as much as it surprised Kinch.

Carter looked him square in the eye and clenched his fists.

"That's not true!" he shouted. "If you knew about everything he's done, everything _we've _done, you'd never say that."

He bit at his lip and lowered his head as he realized that he was talking to a captain.

Kinch threw a worried look in the English officer's direction, but his reaction was far from being anything to worry about. Actually, Lackey was smiling, seemingly understanding of the young American's sudden brusqueness. The first time he'd seen Carter, when his plane had been shot down two nights ago, he never would have thought that the boy would raise his voice against a superior officer. He'd been wrong. And if he was wrong about the young American, then maybe he wasn't entirely right about Newkirk.

The Englishman took a chair and set it near the desk where the radio was, taking a seat. At the surprise of the two Americans, keeping his eyes fixed on Carter, he said:

"I've got plenty of time. Tell me."

_Newkirk must have hit him really hard, _Kinch said to himself, more than astonished that the captain was really interested in their Englishman's accomplishments in battle.

Carter had a moment of hesitation, but determination quickly replaced the doubt in his eyes and he began to talk about all the times that Newkirk had gotten them out of bad situations.

oOo

General Eberhart was inwardly boiling mad. To watch over these stupid prisoners of war was not his job. And from his point of view the simple act of taking prisoners was an aberration, wasting the supplies as well as the human resources of the German army. All these soldiers chained to their guard posts, instead of fighting on the front…

But, when he had seen that Englishman get into the truck that was supposed to bring the prisoners to the road, he had been gripped by a very bad feeling. He had replaced some of Klink's men with his own, to reassure himself that no attempt at escape would take place once they were outside the camp. Strangely, nothing that came anywhere near Klink seemed to merit his confidence. And this Sergeant Schultz wasn't helping to raise the level of confidence. The only camp that had never had an escape? The prisoners must really like it here… Or, that fact was concealing something else. Because, as far as Eberhart could see, there shouldn't be anything difficult about escaping from Stalag 13.

He had heard about this stalag and about Colonel Klink before, and also about this Colonel Hogan who seemed, and this was very disconcerting, to be running the camp instead of the Germans. A Major Hochstetter who he had met once in Berlin was completely obsessed by this stalag that, to hear him tell it, was at the root of everything that went wrong in Germany. Maybe there was some truth to his wild claims after all.

And here he was with all these questions, having to reprimand Sergeant Schultz who had fallen asleep in the back of the truck instead of watching the prisoners.

"I won't even threaten you with the Russian Front! You might lose the war for us singlehandedly!"

"I swear, General, that I was only resting my eyes. To keep them open longer and to prevent any attempt at escape!"

He was almost convincing. But to be almost convincing wasn't going to work on someone who had spent the last few years of his life perfecting and adding to his 'interrogation techniques'. Except for this time.

"_Der Engländer! __Wo ist der Engländer?_" the general suddenly roared at the top of his lungs, making all the men around him jump.

"_Der Engländer?_" You mean Newkirk? He's right there," Schultz confirmed, pointing his finger to a spot that was devoid of any human life whatsoever.

There were guards around, and prisoners, but in that exact spot, there was nothing but a shovel planted in the churned-up ground.

oOo

A branch struck Newkirk full in the face, lightly cutting his cheek as he ran breathlessly between the trees. His long experience in matters of sabotaging roadways and blowing up German convoys had given him a definite advantage. Without a doubt, he knew the area much better than his pursuers did.

On the other hand, the Germans were armed. He hadn't dared to point out that small flaw in Colonel Hogan's plan, and he was beginning to bite his nails over it.

The Englishman tripped over a root and regained his balance just in time to see the bark of a nearby tree blown to bits. He was too far away for his pursuers to see him, which told him only one thing: the guards were firing blindly!

Newkirk felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end at the idea that the next bullet could very well be for him.

_Okay, the game's over. I'm far enough away now._

He wasn't worried about not leaving any tracks; on the other hand, the English corporal was carelessly crushing the brush that lay in his path and, after being reassured that the Germans weren't about to emerge from the surrounding thickets, he made a sharp about-face.

At the fleeting sight of a black cloth between the branches, he dropped to the ground, far enough away from his starting point, or at least he hoped he was, that the Gestapo guards would keep right on going without seeing him. Fortunately, they didn't have any dogs and were trusting only in the traces left by the fugitive, never suspecting for a single moment that they had been left there intentionally. Getting away from German patrols was like a game for them, a game at which they were all beginning to excel. And running through the woods without leaving any traces of their passage had become second nature.

Newkirk caught his breath as he watched one of the men dressed in black look in his direction and take a few paces towards him. Fortunately, at that moment another German called out something to him, and the guard kept moving. They had probably found the 'tracks' left by the Englishman, or perhaps of some animal who might have made them.

Exhaling the air he had been holding in his lungs up to that point, Newkirk headed away from the Germans on all fours, first assuring himself that he would be able to recover and run without finding himself turned into a human sieve.

oOo

Seeing that his fears with regard to the English corporal had been well-founded, the Gestapo general had immediately set his guards as well as Klink's in pursuit of the fugitive. As for the other prisoners, they had been loaded back onto the truck for Schultz to keep an eye, as well as a rifle, trained on them.

Assessing the panic caused by Newkirk's disappearance, Colonel Hogan had first thought that his plan was going without a hitch. Except, since nothing ever went exactly as planned, General Eberhart had decided to follow his men, armed to the teeth. That hadn't been anticipated. Generals gave orders; they stayed in the rear. Except, and Hogan knew he should have taken this into account, this general was different.

The colonel didn't respond to the panicked expression on Lebeau's face when the general plunged into the woods. He knew very well what the Frenchman was thinking. Eberhart might encounter Newkirk when he headed back towards their position. The Englishman wouldn't be expecting to find himself face to face with the general, and that surprise risked giving Eberhart the advantage, in addition to the fact that Newkirk was unarmed. Faced with Schultz or any other Luftwaffe soldier, Newkirk would only have to give himself up. Faced with a Gestapo general, he wouldn't even have the time…

Very quickly, Hogan decided that there was only one thing to do.

He was the one seated closest to Schultz. The guard was on his feet, in the back of the truck, resting his large body against the stock of his rifle.

"Newkirk!" the American exclaimed, feigning surprise.

Schultz was startled and, awkwardly lifting his rifle, turned in the direction Hogan was looking. Hogan made good use of that moment of inattention to give him a quick, brutal blow to the back of the head with the shovel, and he sank to the ground without even having the time to see that Newkirk was nowhere in sight.

oOo

"_Halt_!"

The Englishman's blood froze instantaneously as he stopped short, instinctively raising his hands towards the sky. Less than two meters away, General Eberhart, a triumphant smile on his face, had him in his sights, his finger ready to pull the trigger.

The click of the gun's hammer exploded in his skull, a forerunner of the bullet that wasn't going to be long in lodging there.

_What's he doing here? The colonel was supposed to keep him busy. Keep him close to the truck and…_

"You've got me, I give up," Newkirk tried in a voice that he would have liked to be a little calmer, having already realized that Eberhart wasn't planning to bring him back to the camp. Not alive.

The sinister smile on the German's face got broader, and the Englishman closed his eyes in spite of himself, ready to hear the last explosion of his life.

"BANG!"

The noise made Newkirk jump. He needed a few seconds to realize that it hadn't been an explosion, and, more importantly, that he wasn't dead. He opened his eyes to find himself face to face with the mocking expression of Corporal Louis Lebeau, who seemed quite proud to have frightened his friend that way.

The Englishman's expression rested first on General Eberhart, sprawled on the ground, unconscious, and surrounded by Colonel Hogan and two other men. The colonel had recovered the German's weapon and checked his pulse. They had arrived just in the nick of time, overcoming the German with a blow to the head from the revolver. A revolver borrowed from poor Sergeant Schultz.

"Did I scare you?" joked the Frenchman, giving his friend a light backhand to the stomach.

"Why, you little…" Newkirk began, putting his arm around the cook's shoulders. He didn't make it to the end of his thought, too happy to still be alive, and smiled as Lebeau gave him a pat on the back. Lebeau was relieved, as well. If they'd been just a few moments later, he wouldn't have had an Englishman to squabble with anymore.

The two friends approached the unconscious general, each taking him under one of his armpits in order to drag him to the road. Hogan took care of covering the rear in case the soldiers who had chased after Newkirk were coming their way.

oOo

"Schultz, wake up. Schultzie, there's no more strudel."

The last few words murmured in his ear by Corporal Lebeau had the hoped-for effect, and the Geman sergeant lying on the ground sat up briskly, his eyes wide open.

"Strudel!"

"Sorry, Schultz, it was the only way to wake you up," the corporal apologized, kneeling next to the sergeant.

He helped him, not without difficulty, to get up, and then handed him his rifle. Then Hogan came up to him, effecting a concerned manner, and examined his eyes as a doctor might have done. Then he held up two fingers in his field of vision and asked:

"How many fingers?"

"Two," the sergeant replied without hesitation, before realizing something important and pointing his weapon at the prisoners.

"Someone attacked me! Colonel Hogan, you said that Newkirk was there but…"

"Hey there, Schultzie," the Englishman in question spoke up, sticking his head into the truck to give him a little wave of his hand.

"New… Newkirk? But… but..."

Coming to poor Schultz's assistance with the necessary words, Hogan gave him his own explanation of the facts:

"Nobody attacked you, Schultz. You fainted. You need to be more careful, Sergeant, you're under way too much stress."

"But…" the fat German tried to protest, until he was quickly cut off by Lebeau:

"The colonel's right. You're under stress so you're not eating as much, and you'll end up having a breakdown."

"Oh," thought the German, and obviously he had just done exactly that, as predicted. "I haven't had the time to eat this noontime, with the General having us watch the cooler… I've only eaten two of my sandwiches."

Colonel Hogan shook his head from side to side, overwhelmed.

"For a man your size, that's not even close to being enough. You're lucky that none of your little friends saw you… If General Eberhart had been here, you would have earned a one-way ticket to Moscow."

"Colonel Hogan, can we keep this between us?" Schultz asked with concern.

To reassure him, the American patted his shoulder and smiled.

"Of course. And then there's no reason at all for you to be reprimanded. After all, you found Newkirk."

"I did that?"

"I came back on my own, mate," Newkirk clarified, "but nobody has to know the details. It's true, and after all, it was stupid. Without any supplies or a plan, I wouldn't have made it very far… And as you were the only guard around, even flat on your face… Well, anyway, I deserve to be taken to the cooler. So if it can be useful to someone, I am glad to help."

The guards who had left in pursuit of the vanished Englishman returned to the truck a short while later with the intention of contacting Stalag 13 to ask for them to send some reinforcements. Which turned out to be unnecessary, when the Germans realized that their prey was already waiting for them in the back of the truck. Colonel Hogan didn't leave them any time to ask any questions.

"We're still missing somebody, aren't we?" he remarked in all innocence.

The soldiers exchanged looks, visibly paling as soon as they realized who the American had been referring to.

"_Wo ist der Général__?"_

**To be continued. **


	11. Chapter 11 : Fireworks at Stalag 13

**Hi ! Here is chapter 11 with some pure Hogan'heroes tricks ;) Enjoy!**

**Chapter 11**

**Fireworks at Stalag 13**

"And then, he pulled the bow out of my hands, and _fiouuu_… boom! On the first try!" young Sergeant Carter exclaimed as he mimed the explosion, completely forgetting who he was addressing. Then again, Captain Lackey seemed more amused than annoyed, listening with interest to the American's animated narration.

As for Kinch, he was still concentrating on his radio. If everything had gone well, the colonel's message should be coming any time now. And actually…

"There it is!" he told Lackey and Carter, interrupting the young man in the middle of his story.

"Schultz is on the line with Klink," the American went on. "It seems that General Eberhart has vanished… that's the signal."

"Then it's my turn to play," Carter said, slipping the stick of dynamite into his jacket before grabbing the ladder to exit the tunnel.

"Be careful!" Kinch called after him, before the bunk closed again on the entrance to the tunnel.

oOo

"Okay," Hogan whispered into the back of the truck as they listened to Schultz bellowing his panic into the walkie-talkie. "It's up to Carter now."

"I hope he's not going to do anything stupid again, or worse, that he doesn't get himself captured," murmured Lebeau, who, sitting nearby, had his fingers crossed and was saying a silent prayer. "And if the package wakes up? Have you got a plan?"

"No," the colonel said honestly without the least trace of concern marring the calm in his voice.

The Frenchman threw him a grim look but didn't say anything. It wasn't the first time they had let luck decide their future. And strangely, luck had often been on their side. So, why worry?

Newkirk was seated in the bottom of the truck. After making sure that none of the Germans were looking inside the vehicle, he pressed his ear to the wooden wall.

"Not budging at all," he reassured his companion. "He's nowhere close to wakin' up if you want my opinion."

A fake wall. Leaving a space just big enough to stash an adult-sized body. And it was exactly with that perspective that he had been loaded inside. After all, if the Germans let their enemies handle the repairs to their military vehicles, the enemies in question had every right to make a few modifications.

oOo

While feigning interest in the card game that was going on at his feet, not far from the entrance to the cooler, Jones was watching the closest barracks out of the corner of his eye. When he saw Carter sliding nonchalantly along with his back to the wall of the building, he knew that it was up to him.

"Hey!" he called, loud enough for the guards who were watching the cells to hear. "You had a two, not a king!"

The volunteer cheater, an American soldier, presented to be caught red-handed, attracting the ire of his English adversary who stood up and readied his fists.

"Cheater!" he accused, approaching dangerously close, attracting more and more attention towards their little group.

The soldier accused of cheating stood up to protect himself from the right hook that was thrown, avoiding it in the nick of time. He returned the punch, catching the Englishman in the stomach.

Jones tried (without the slightest conviction) to separate them and took a punch himself, his right hand immediately taking on a red hue. To put on a convincing fight, it had to look like the punches were for real. And they were.

Very quickly, the other prisoners began to join the fight, obliging the Gestapo guards to intervene.

Andrew made sure that the all Luftwaffe men up in the guard towers had their gazes fixed on the all-out brawl, and also that those of the Gestapo were sufficiently distracted from the cooler. The young American wiped his damp hands on his pants and swallowed hard, the fear of failure gripping his insides. At the moment, everything rested on his success. He picked up the bow which he had put against the wall behind his back and took an arrow out of his jacket. He had hooked the dynamite on, hoping that the weight of the object wouldn't make him lose control of his aim. In an instant, the string, stretched to the maximum, was released and the lighted projectile took flight.

Jones had already pushed the group of intermingled prisoners out of his line of fire.

The arrow flew directly towards its target. All his practicing had finally paid off. A Luftwaffe soldier, on the run on his way to break up the fight, nearly interrupted the arrow's course, but it passed as if by some miracle just behind his back.

The elongated shaft of wood flew into the cooler window and in an instant, everything was over.

The explosion was more violent than had been anticipated. Lebeau had placed several explosives in the crates when he had unloaded part of the contents, and the chain reaction begun by the explosion of the stick of dynamite made the whole camp shake. German soldiers and Allies alike threw themselves on the ground, covering their heads with their hands to protect themselves from the debris.

Carter didn't have the time to admire his work; he returned to the barracks to get rid of the weapon.

After the shock of the explosion, the men got to their feet to evaluate the damage, either with satisfaction or horror, whichever side they happened to be on. There was nothing left. No more dossiers, no more films, but most of all, no more cooler…

Yes, the explosion had been a bit stronger than anticipated. And the men had all been very lucky not to have had any of the cement blocks that now covered Stalag 13 fall on their heads.

When Klink arrived at the scene, he opened his mouth several times without any sound coming out, stood perfectly still for another instant in front of the destruction, and then returned calmly to his office as if it had all been a dream from which he would soon awaken…

oOo

_Schnell, schnell_ ! Into the barracks!"

"Take it easy, Schultz, it's not every day we can see something like that," Colonel Hogan smiled as he passed through the door.

"Oh, Colonel Hogan, tell me that you had nothing to do with it. Please. First of all the general who disappeared and now… this."

"Too bad that we missed the fireworks."

"Hogan…" implored the German, his eyes beginning to fill with tears.

"I had nothing to do with it, Schulz," the American reassured him, before adding with a smile:

"If that's what you want to hear."

"Hey, Schultzie! We could get in a lot easier if you weren't blockin' the door."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Newkirk. But you can't keep these tools in the barracks. It's against regulations."

Newkirk and Lebeau were transporting a heavy load rolled up in a tarp from which seemed to vaguely resemble a human silhouette. One of the men from Barracks 2 came to their assistance to carry the package, which appeared to weigh much more than it should have.

"We have to keep the tools for now," Hogan intervened.

"Why?" the fat sergeant failed to understand.

"Well, first of all because the tools are dirty and it's our duty to clean them before putting them away, and also because we're confined to the barracks."

"That's true… but promise me that you won't use them to dig any tunnels."

"Of course we won't. Why would we be digging any tunnels? We already have plenty," the colonel replied, pushing the sergeant outside the barracks.

"Hogan…" the German groaned, "Tell me nothing. I know nothing."

"Goodbye, Schultz."

The door closed on the German before he had the time to protest, and the colonel turned immediately towards his men to give them their instructions.

"Take the package down into the tunnel and tie it up good. Kinch, the explosion didn't do too much damage?"

"Everything we had underneath the cooler is caved in, and most of the tunnels that lead to it are unstable," the American sergeant replied as he opened the passageway situated underneath the bunk. "The emergency tunnel seems to be intact."

"At least the Germans aren't likely to come across any of our tunnels while cleaning up that mess," Lebeau remarked, helping to slide 'the package' as best he could across the ground.

Olsen came to give them a hand to get the package down into the tunnel, dropping it without too much care into Kinch's arms as he waited below.

"That must have been some explosion!" Newkirk said happily as he came up to Carter, who had been sitting wordlessly at the table since their return. "Well then, mate, you should be happy," he said as he gave him a pat on the back.

No answer. Which when it came to Carter was rather alarming, he who was incapable of staying silent more than a few minutes.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" asked the Englishman with concern, attracting a few intrigued looks in their direction from all the men in the barracks. "Our hard work paid off, didn't it? The little deer running in the forest finally found Robin Hood."

"That isn't it," the American groaned.

"Then what is it?"

Carter lifted his sad eyes towards his friend and said:

"It's that… I didn't even get to see the explosion…"

oOo

The Gestapo general had finally awoken, bound and gagged in a tunnel that he immediately linked to the prisoners of Stalag 13. He never would have thought that Major Hochstetter could have been so right about the underground activities of Colonel Hogan and his men. Such an infrastructure under a prison camp, such an organization, it appeared to be impossible. And yet…

His gaze rested on the two men who were talking next to what appeared to be a long-range radio. The general had stopped struggling a moment after having figured out that it would only serve to aggravate the pain in his head, and satisfied himself to watch the comings and goings of the 'prisoners'. They weren't going to be able to keep him there forever, in any case. All the German soldiers in the area would be out there looking for him. But that reality didn't seem to visibly concern the American colonel who kept speaking calmly with his second-in-command.

"The submarine will be ready in two days. I already contacted the Underground; they've recovered the documents and the films that you left this morning but it'll be impossible for them to get back to the rendez-vous point with all those Krauts out there looking for their general."

"Don't worry about that, Kinch. We just need Klink to call back his own men. That'll only leave the ones from the Gestapo, which should leave us enough of an opening to be able to meet up with the Underground and give the general over to them to take care of," Hogan explained.

"Klink's going to recall his men? Why?" asked Kinch with a raised eyebrow.

"Because I'm going to ask him to."

Eberhart frowned as he heard the colonel's words and felt a cold feeling pass through his body. That American was the embodiment of the devil.

oOo

Hogan had been convinced that Colonel Klink would eventually summon him, which was what he always did when things were out of control. He was therefore not surprised when Schultz came looking for him, just before dinner.

The pleasure of seeing the Germans scrambling around what was left of the cooler was equal only to the sight of Klink in the state he was in. The poor commandant was pacing in his office, incapable of concentrating, convinced that some big shot was about to arrive from Berlin, bringing him a one-way ticket to the Eastern Front. Or worse. In the same day, he had succeeded in losing a shipment destined for the High Command, a whole building, and a general.

"Everything okay, Colonel?"

The American's sudden interest in the German was ostensibly diminished by the amused smile that he had on his face.

Klink dismissed Schultz with a wave of his hand and sat down at his desk, running his hand nervously over what remained of his hair.

"Hogan, I'm finished."

The American swallowed his smile as best he could and sat down facing Klink, in the process helping himself to the box of cigars. He slipped three into his jacket without Klink saying a word, which showed to what point the poor man had been affected by all the catastrophes that had recently befallen him.

"Come on, Colonel. You don't have to work yourself up into such a state. You haven't done anything wrong, after all."

"Nothing… you're mocking me, Hogan! The general, the cooler… actually everything that's happened. You call that nothing ?"

"No. I only said that you didn't have anything to do with those… unfortunate events."

"Do you think they're related somehow?"

"That seems obvious. How about a schnapps?" Hogan suggested, filling up two glasses without waiting for the response.

He held one out to the camp commandant who emptied it in a single gulp, and saved the other one to savor it with as much pleasure as he was savoring this conversation.

"So the people who took General Eberhart might have also blown up the cooler…" the German colonel mused out loud.

Hogan sighed as he listened to Klink's theory, which was actually right on the nose, and shook his head slowly.

"Oh, the Gestapo… they're good, if even the invincible Iron Eagle falls into their trap…"

Klink's eyes opened so wide that his monocle fell out.

"A trap? By the Gestapo?" he repeated.

"Not just by the Gestapo, but by Eberhart. It seems obvious."

"The general would have… _noooo_. It's impossible," Klink laughed, waving the idea away with a motion of his hand. But when the idea began to build in his mind, a look of horror twisted his face. He leaned across his desk to get closer to Hogan and murmured as if he were afraid of being overheard by a curious ear. Which was far from being an unfounded fear, since Hogan's men were probably sitting around their coffee pot/receiver, listening with rapt attention to the exchange between their superior and the camp commandant.

"What should I do?"

"Well," Hogan began, pouring another glass of schnapps, "you could tell all your suspicions to General Burkhalter, have Eberhart arrested if you can get your hands on him, and get all the glory, but it's risky… the Gestapo might want to hush up the whole thing. And you along with it."

Colonel Klink paled at that remark but didn't make any comment, letting Hogan finish.

"Or you could let the Gestapo fix the problem. After all, it's their general, their cargo."

"Their general, yes," Klink agreed, as if hypnotized by the American's words. "But what can I tell Berlin if they ask me about the general?"

"Just that you did your duty. Your guards were watching over the security of the camp, especially since the attack, but the Gestapo men haven't even been able to prevent a building _they_ were supposed to be guarding from blowing up."

The commandant nodded his head and slightly knit his eyebrows as an idea came to him:

"There was a fight amongst your men and the guards were distracted for a moment. Hogan, if that was some sort of diversion…" he warned.

"Come on, Colonel, have you ever seen any of the prisoners walking around this camp with explosives? That's crazy," Hogan pressed.

"You're right. I wonder why I even thought it. It's ridiculous. A prisoner with explosives. In my stalag! Unthinkable."

"Okay, I'll leave you alone. You have a few phone calls to make to call your men back in. I wouldn't want to disturb you," Colonel Hogan told him as he got up from his chair and headed for the door.

Once again, the Iron Eagle had been manipulated by the hand of the master.

oOo

"You think I should wake him up?" asked Lebeau while he served his casserole, filling the bowls held out by his companions.

Hogan glanced in the direction of Newkirk's bunk. The Englishman had stretched out on his mattress a little while after the American had returned from Klink's office and hadn't moved since. The light snoring that rose from his bunk proved that he was deeply asleep, not disturbed in the slightest by the activity that continued around him, or by the strong aroma of cooking that perfumed the barracks. These last few days had completely exhausted him.

The colonel stood up with the intention of asking the Englishman if he was hungry, leaning against the lower bunk to reach the one on top, but he stopped when he saw the corporal's face. Newkirk was far from having the peaceful expression of deep sleep. His eyebrows were tense, his eyes twitched behind his closed eyelids, and his breathing was too fast. He appeared to be in the midst of a nightmare.

Hogan rested a hand on the corporal's shoulder, without really knowing if he should be reassuring him or waking him. At the gentle touch, Newkirk calmed down almost instantaneously, falling into a sleep that would hopefully be less terrifying and more restorative. Hogan hadn't noticed it before, but Newkirk hadn't even taken the trouble to remove his uniform. He had to be more exhausted than he'd let on.

With the nightmare passed, and not having the heart to wrench the Englishman from the arms of Morpheus, the colonel satisfied himself by simply pulling the blanket up to his shoulders before returning to the table along with the other prisoners, who hadn't failed to notice the worry lines that creased his forehead.

**To be continued.**

**Reviews are, as always, very welcome **


	12. Chapter 12 : Blood Under the Moon

**Here is another one of the chapters I loved to write. SimoneSez did a good job in translating it, she kept the very spirit of the emotions I tried to write. A lot of Newkirk's personality is revealed by his actions in there ^^ I hope you will like. **

**Chapter 12**

**Blood Under the Moon**

The next day was much calmer in comparison to the past few days. The prisoners were still confined to the barracks, but given the torrents of rain that had been falling on the stalag since morning, nobody was complaining.

As expected, Colonel Klink had called most of his troops back to the camp to reinforce security and to clean up the compound, which was still strewn with debris from the cooler. He had even thought about having the prisoners clean up the damage caused by the explosion, but using his own men gave him one more excuse to have them call off their search. As for Eberhart's men, they continued to scour the forest. With a little luck, their search wouldn't lead them directly to the rendez-vous point with the Underground.

If the Gestapo general didn't leave the camp this evening, he would miss the submarine. That was unacceptable. Hogan couldn't run the risk of keeping a German general in the tunnel any longer. Most of all this one. He was the kind of man who would take any crazy risk to try and escape.

But, for the moment, he was under the watchful guard of Captain Lackey. They were going to have to cover a lot of ground together to get to England, so it made sense for them to start getting to know each other right away. And also, keeping the RAF captain busy prevented him from going up into the barracks to run across a certain British corporal.

Hogan would have liked Newkirk to make up his mind to speak to his former instructor, that he might tell him how he felt, that he might tell him the truth about the theft which he had been wrongly accused of. He would have liked him to talk about it, yes, but he didn't want to force his hand. Not so long as there remained a possibility that Newkirk might take the first step, in any case. Which was, and the American wasn't kidding himself about this, very unlikely. When he wanted to, the corporal could be extremely stubborn.

The colonel was convinced that Newkirk hadn't told him the whole story. When he had decided to cover for his young friend, the Englishman had certainly realized that he would appear to be the one responsible. He already knew Lackey's feelings on the matter, and he had done everything to avoid any suspicion falling on the boy. But the resentment that he felt regarding his captain couldn't just be because of that unfounded accusation. It wasn't his honor that had been hurt. No. Hogan didn't know what Lackey had done in his belief that Newkirk was the thief, but he knew one thing: he had broken something in Newkirk, and that invisible break had not yet closed over.

At that hour, in spite of the dark circles that attested to how little sleep he had managed to get that night, Newkirk shamelessly gathered up the bills that his comrades had just lost to him. At poker, he was almost unbeatable. The Englishman shuffled the cards and dealt them out again under the watchful eye of the other players, who couldn't help but suspect that something not quite right was going on. And yet, even if cheating wouldn't have been very difficult for him, he never would have used his talents in that area to steal money from his friends.

Sitting with his back to the wall near the door, watching the game unfold, Hogan couldn't help but notice that the Englishman was dealing the cards much slower than he normally did. His hand must still be hurting him, and judging by the vivid mark that covered it, he had probably not done anything to improve matters any. From his position behind the Englishman, the colonel allowed his gaze to rest on the cards that he held. With that hand, he didn't risk missing much if he left the game for a while. Two clubs, a two and a five. A three of hearts and a jack of diamonds. Besides that, most of the players had already fold, doubtless tired of losing but also confused about the game Newkirk was playing, always dealing the next card with the same sparkle in his eyes and the same smile as if he was sure of winning. It was impossible to read anything in his game, and as the Englishman had already collected most of the previous pots, he was probably going to get his hands on this one too.

Even before the last play had been made, all the cards were face-down on the table with the exception of Newkirk's. Once more he collected the pot without showing his hand. Hogan suppressed a smile, so as not to give away to the others that they could have easily won that hand. They had all been so convinced that Newkirk would win that their chances had all been cancelled out by their doubts.

"I give up," Olsen groaned as he got up to go to bed, still sulking.

"I think I'll do the same," Kinch sighed. "I'm not rich enough to keep this up anyway."

The game was over. Newkirk carefully replaced the cards in their box and collected the fistful of bills that he had just won, slipping them into his pants pocket.

When he got to his feet, he was startled to find himself face to face with Colonel Hogan. He hadn't seen that the colonel was behind him. Hogan gently took him by the arm and gestured to his office with a nod of his head. Newkirk complied slowly, concerned about what the American might want with him. Nevertheless, he followed him into his quarters, swallowing hard when he heard the door close behind him.

"Sit down," the American told him simply.

Never even considering the idea of disobeying an order from his superior, Newkirk let himself drop into a chair, watching Hogan as he took something out of his locker. A first aid kit.

"Your hand."

The Englishman's first reaction was to hide his hand behind his back, but he quickly realized that that was stupid. The colonel had obviously already had a good look at his injury.

"It doesn't hurt," he claimed as he held out his hand.

"Oh really?"

Absolutely certain of the contrary, the colonel gave him a little tap on the back of his hand.

"Ow!"

Then, he actually did hide his hand behind his back…

"Your hand."

Newkirk gave it to him, unwillingly, giving him a dour look. Maybe he'd been asking for it a little bit, but that still wasn't a good reason.

This time, the colonel took his hand very carefully to take a look at the bruise.

"It's swollen since yesterday. Can you close your fist?"

He could close it, but not tightly, the pain radiating through his arm with any attempt.

"You must have hit him pretty hard…"

"You can say that again, guv'nor!"

Hogan pretended not to notice the corporal's proud attitude and contented himself by spreading some salve on the bruise. Newkirk's satisfied smile disappeared as soon as he did so; the colonel's fingers pressing on his injury were anything but pleasant. Nevertheless, he didn't pull his hand away and waited for the salve to begin to have some effect.

When the color began to return to the corporal's face, Hogan stopped what he was doing. He prepared a compress of the same ointment and laid it on the wound, surrounding it with a bandage to keep it in place.

Newkirk felt a little bit like an idiot being babied like that by his superior officer but let him proceed without a word, avoiding the colonel's gaze.

"There. It's nothing fancy but it should do the trick."

Convinced that Hogan was finished with him, Newkirk began to get to his feet, but the colonel's meaningful look told him otherwise.

"Newkirk. Do you think you could escort Captain Lackey and Eberhart to the rendez-vous point with the Underground?"

The Englishman's face grew darker. He knew very well that the colonel wasn't talking about the little boo-boo on his hand.

"Why me? I've already done enough for this mission." His tone was colder than he might have wanted it to be, but Colonel Hogan shouldn't be getting involved in things that were none of his business. Yes, he had confided in him, but that didn't give him the right to force him to confront Lackey. Most definitely when one considered the results of the last confrontation between the two Englishmen.

The American didn't answer but his expression was severe and not to be questioned.

"Is it an order?" Newkirk muttered, lowering his head, realizing he was beaten.

"Yes."

The English corporal gritted his teeth, and his fingers clutched compulsively at his pants. If it was an order, he would obey it.

oOo

Night had fallen on the stalag a little while ago. A stressed silence had come over Barracks 2 although Newkirk, Lackey and their prisoner had already taken off into the forest, and were now at the mercy of the Gestapo patrols.

The rest of Hogan's team couldn't manage to go to bed and wait for the British corporal's return. They were all sitting around the table, in the dark, lit up from time to time by the searchlights that regularly swept over their barracks. They spoke in low voices, sipping coffee whose calming warmth still wasn't enough to ease their concern.

They had sent just one man to escort the English captain and the German general in the hopes that their reduced numbers would permit them to make it past the patrols more easily, if by some stroke of bad luck they happened to encounter any. As for having chosen Newkirk, everyone already knew the reason.

"I'm not sure you had such a good idea this time, _mon colonel_", Lebeau could no longer resist saying out loud. "The situation is risky enough as it is…"

"I know," Hogan agreed somberly. "The mission comes first, but it's the last chance for Newkirk to avoid a court martial."

"You think he's gonna kill the captain and bury him in the forest so his body will never be found?"

All eyes turned toward Carter whose smile, in the shadows, was particularly unsettling at that moment. There was no reply to that…

"He's not completely off base, Colonel," Kinch finally admitted. "If you'd seen Newkirk… he really _could _have killed him."

"You're just saying that," Lebeau insisted, forgetting to lower his voice. "He wouldn't kill in cold blood. Not an Ally!"

He had arrived at Stalag 13 a little while after Newkirk. The only Frenchman in the entire camp. He had been cast to the sidelines and hadn't said anything about it, becoming more and more withdrawn with each verbal duel or fight with the English. He had been convinced at the time that he was the only one who didn't fit in, until he'd been transferred to a new barracks and had met THE black sheep of the camp. At the time, Newkirk already had a good number of escape attempts to his credit, but his long stays in the cooler weren't just due to his quasi-suicidal persistence in that area. He attracted trouble with a perverse kind of pleasure. Trouble from the Germans but also from the English soldiers who had to deal with the consequences of Newkirk's actions. And his so called Allies were prompt to make him pay for that… Yet in spite of that, Lebeau had never seen Newkirk start anything with any of the other prisoners, only ever raising his hand in self-defense.

It had taken a long time for the Frenchman to understand that the British corporal with the icy stare was anything but crazy.

"Calm down," Hogan intervened. "I don't think he'll go that far either. But if Newkirk doesn't talk to Lackey, his stay at this stalag will look like a vacation in comparison to what'll be waiting for him in England."

"I talked to the captain," Carter put in. "Maybe that'll help…"

Hogan had to smile at the optimism of the sergeant seated nearby and took a sip of coffee, his gaze lost in the dark liquid that filled the cup.

oOo

Corporal Peter Newkirk hadn't killed his captain, at least not yet. But neither had he said one word to him since they had left the emergency tunnel. As for General Eberhart, he wasn't likely to speak, gagged as he was.

The German's hands had been tied behind his back, his arm tightly gripped by Newkirk to force him to keep going in the right direction. The pistol that the Englishman held with the other hand was close by in order to cut short any escape attempts on the German's part.

Lackey followed Newkirk closely, listening carefully, his weapon pressed against his chest.

They had been walking for almost three quarters of an hour now, and they were about halfway between Stalag 13 and the rendez-vous point, without making a sound. The captain was the first one to break the heavy silence:

"I had a chance to talk with Sergeant Carter. He's a nice kid."

Newkirk started a bit at the sound of his voice, surprised.

"Don't talk. There might be Germans around."

Lackey didn't remark on the order he had just received from a subordinate, but continued:

"Corporal."

He never had the chance to say what he had to say. Newkirk turned towards him, an unquenchable fire in his eyes.

"I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you're after."

The RAF captain took a step backwards. That rage in the corporal's eyes… that was the last thing he'd seen before falling unconscious when this man had attacked him. Sergeant Carter had no doubt been right about the corporal's good qualities and the usefulness of his 'talents' on their different missions, but Newkirk's character remained what it had always been: stubborn, disrespectful and dangerous. If the corporal didn't want to explain himself, too bad; he would suffer the consequences.

Newkirk, on the other hand, couldn't rein in his feelings for much longer. Now that he had started, nothing could keep him from venting his hatred on the captain:

"You killed him. He was just a kid, and you killed him. You were his captain; it was your job to protect him, not mine! And you abandoned him… I never laid a hand on that damn money, never!"

His thoughts were even less coherent than the words that passed his lips, but Lackey couldn't help but listen.

Eberhart was surprised at this turn of events. Obviously, he had other things to think about, but he couldn't help but pay attention to the British corporal who, it seemed, hadn't objected to hitting his superior officer. And more than once, given the state of the man's face.

But the attention he was paying to Newkirk's words didn't prevent him from noticing that the Englishman's hold on his arm wasn't as tight, and that his personal escort's attention was no longer directed at him. He might get himself shot, but that was a risk he was willing to take. He knew that the Allies wanted him alive and he also knew that a gunshot would alert any German soldiers on patrol in the area. So he had every chance of getting out of this alive.

Newkirk hardly felt the general's arm slip through his fingers. He turned, his weapon in hand, to see the German running for the shelter of the shadows. He couldn't shoot at him, not when they were surrounded by Germans ready to leap out at them if they made the slightest mistake.

Cursing himself for his inattention, Newkirk took off after the general. He was younger and much more agile than the German. His mistake would soon be rectified.

A shot resounded like an explosion in the midst of the night.

Eberhart didn't immediately feel the bullet that passed through his body. It took him a second before realizing that ripples of life were ebbing from his chest, cutting off his breath, making him nauseous. He hesitated, took a step, two steps, his body going first, then he collapsed.

Newkirk didn't have to turn around to figure out where the shot had come from. He kept going until he reached the trembling body of the Gestapo general, kneeling at his side in the hope that the wound wasn't as serious as it looked. He turned him over, surprised to find Eberhart still conscious.

Instinctively, almost forgetting who he was dealing with, the Englishman pressed a hand on the German's wound, trying to stop the flow of blood.

The German patrols, alerted by the gunshot, wouldn't be far away; he couldn't let the general be found alive. If he talked, they would all be in danger. Colonel Hogan, Lebeau, Carter, Kinch. They would all be in danger.

One hand still pressing against the entry wound, Newkirk put the barrel of his gun against Eberhart's chest, right in the middle of his heart. His hand shook, but he had to do it.

He had expected the general to beg him not to, he had expected to see more terror in his victim's eyes than in his own, but he hadn't expected this.

Lifting his bound hands with difficulty, the general weakly grasped Newkirk's arm. Not to push his gun away from his heart… no.

"If all our men were like you, Corporal, we would have won the war a long time ago," he gasped.

His last breath. His arms fell back down; his eyes, devoid of any life, stayed fixed on Newkirk like a window into hell. Newkirk would never forget that look.

Ignoring the wave of sickness that gripped him and Captain Lackey who stood behind him, murmuring some unintelligible excuses, Newkirk pushed away the gun that he had never had to use and removed the handcuffs from the dead man. Hesitating to close the general's eyes that held such an empty look, the corporal turned the body face down, as if he had never touched it.

Voices. Loud. Close.

That was all they needed. They were surrounded.

Newkirk stood and stared down his captain, the war hero who was shaking like a leaf.

"Captain."

Lackey seemed very far off and his lack of a reaction made Newkirk want to take a swing at him, but this was no time for that. The corporal slipped his pistol into his belt and planted both hands on the pilot's shoulders, shaking him to get his attention.

"Captain! You remember the way back to camp? Captain?"

Lackey nodded, snapping out of his stupor. Newkirk released him and took up his pistol again.

"Get back to camp. Wait to be sure you're not followed. Understand?"

Another hesitant nod of his head.

"Don't worry. I'll lead them in another direction."

Lackey watched the corporal take off in the opposite direction from camp, frozen, incapable of doing anything else other than what Newkirk had told him to do. He went back the way they had come, keeping under cover as much as possible.

A shot rang out. All the patrols were headed in his direction. One of them passed very close to Lackey without seeing him. They were surely going to find the general's body. As soon as the Germans were out of his line of sight, the RAF captain who had nothing more impressive than the title headed in the direction of the stalag.

oOo

Newkirk had never expected to end up like this, putting himself up as a decoy to save Lackey, after everything that he'd put him through… what could he have been thinking?

As soon as he was far enough away from the German general's body, Newkirk fired a shot in the air to attract the Gestapo's attention. He didn't wait to see the result of his action, and ran as far as he could, praying that the darkness of the woods would shelter him from the flashlight beams that he could already see sweeping the trees.

With his right hand he gripped his revolver painfully, with his left he pushed aside the branches that came at him from all sides. Eberhart's thick blood on his palm was turning his stomach. He would have liked to stop and wipe it off, but he couldn't, forcing himself to run and ignore the unpleasant, sticky sensation.

His own blood didn't bother him, and the death of a Gestapo general was hardly a catastrophe in itself, but the crimson liquid on his hand was proof that the mission that Colonel Hogan had entrusted to him had turned into a nightmare. Eberhart's dead stare still haunted him while he ran breathlessly, without even looking where he was going, silently berating himself.

_I'm sorry, guv'nor. I messed everything up again._

And suddenly, without warning, the ground disappeared from under his feet. The Englishman tripped and even before he understood what had happened, he fell down a steep hill strewn with sharp rocks. Newkirk covered his head as best he could, letting his back and his ribs take most of the impact.

His fall wasn't too far, and to his great surprise, he was able to get up again, a little out of breath but without any serious damage. Waking up tomorrow morning, after the adrenalin had subsided, was probably going to be a lot more unpleasant. That was supposing that he could manage to get back to camp before morning. And he had no idea where he was at the moment.

Hearing sounds coming from the spot where he'd fallen, Newkirk decided to move more quickly. With a little luck the Germans would lose his trail up there and never suspect he was down below, but it would be better not to count on that. Moreover, he had lost his gun during his fall and couldn't even defend himself if the Gestapo found him.

In spite of his desire to get away from that spot as quickly as possible, the English corporal didn't get very far.

The pain was excruciating. Newkirk barely had time to force his hand between his teeth to muffle the cry that tore from his throat, biting down as hard as he could on the bandage the colonel had put on. The Englishman collapsed on the ground without worrying about the fresh blood that passed his lips as his teeth were still clamped on his hand. His breath had been cut off by the intense pain that radiated all through his left leg. It took him some time to realize, finally letting go of his hand in order to take a deep breath.

When he could breathe a bit more normally, he tried to pull his left leg up to his chest, regretting it immediately. The feeling of having been seized in the jaws of a giant predator with metal fangs and the click caused by the motion finally made him realize what had just happened.

A wolf trap with steel teeth. It was so dark, he had stepped right into it. For the very few wolves that might live in this forest, someone had had to put a trap right in that exact spot…

Letting his eyes silently weep the pain that he didn't dare cry out, Newkirk pulled himself together as best he could and felt around in the darkness for the metal teeth. They were deeply embedded in his calf. Newkirk was no doctor, but he could safely surmise that the trap's teeth had reached the bone.

He knew that if he opened the iron jaws he risked a serious hemorrhage, but he couldn't stay where he was. He was much too exposed.

He began by taking off his belt to make a tourniquet, hoping to minimize the damage. He pulled with all his strength on the leather strap below his knee before starting to work on the trap that held him.

He placed his hands on either side of the jaws, took a deep breath, and, not having the luxury of taking his time, pushed the heavy teeth away from his trapped leg with one swift motion. The pain nearly made him give up, but he succeeded in getting his leg out from between the teeth before letting the trap spring shut again. On emptiness this time.

Blood flowed copiously from the wound in spite of the tourniquet.

"Don't worry, Peter. It's only a little blood; you still have a few quarts left…" the Englishman tried to reassure himself.

Taking the bandage from his right hand, already stained with the blood that had resulted from the bite, Newkirk tried to wrap it around his leg. That didn't make much difference; the noticeable slowing of the blood flow was probably the result of the tourniquet.

Newkirk would have liked to rest for a while before moving on, but that was impossible; he had to get to some shelter. Getting himself on his feet, he barely avoided passing out when he carelessly set his left foot on the ground. Spotting a nearby branch, he took hold of it to use as a crutch. He wouldn't be going very fast or very far like that, but it was all that he had. And to make things worse, he was beginning to feel the effects of the blood loss. He was so tired, his head was spinning and his vision was blurring. As if the persistent darkness wasn't enough to disorient him…

For the first time since things had begun to go badly, Newkirk imagined the worst. He was going to die in this German forest, all alone.

**To be continued. **


	13. Chapter 13 : Alone

**Chapter 13**

**Alone**

When the bunk that concealed the tunnel entrance lifted, all the prisoners in Barracks 2 gave a sigh of relief, thinking that Newkirk had returned. Until they realized that it was much too early, and that they were seeing not the expected Englishman, but the RAF captain who should have been with the Underground, on his way to England.

Nobody breathed a word, and the surprise of seeing the English officer again quickly turned to worry when it became obvious that the corporal wasn't with him.

"Where's Newkirk?" Carter asked hesitantly, knowing very well that he wasn't going to like the answer at all.

Lackey had run all the way. His clothes were soaked, his breathing ragged. He tried to catch his breath enough to allow him to reply, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Hogan stood up and went over to him. He stopped a few inches away from the officer, his questioning gaze cutting through the shadows, then took him by the arm and led him to the nearest bunk.

The Englishman sat on Carter's bunk, ill at ease under the looks of the prisoners who were all now wide awake.

"What happened?"

The colonel's tone was direct. He wanted the truth. Now. He wanted to know the reason for the obvious failure of the mission. But more than anything else, he wanted to know where Newkirk was.

The captain kept his eyes lowered. He accepted the glass of water Lebeau held out to him and took a long swallow before finally replying.

"We were surrounded by German soldiers. Eberhart was… shot."

Hogan noticed the Englishman's hesitation but didn't say anything, just let him continue.

"The Germans were coming and Corporal Newkirk and I separated… He led them in another direction so I could get back to camp. I don't know what could have happened to him after that."

"You let him do that?" The colonel's glacial tone made all the men shiver, the captain included.

The colonel had never anticipated that. That Newkirk would put his own life in danger to protect an officer, especially that one, was surprising, but not as much as all that. He always acted instinctively. But that an RAF captain, considered a hero, would be all right with running away and leaving one of his men behind him, that Hogan simply couldn't conceive of.

"Newkirk told me to go back to the camp and that's what I did."

That was the last straw. Nearly beside himself, Hogan took hold of the Englishman's collar, grabbing it with all his might and forcing the man to look him in the eye for the first time since he'd returned.

"You obeyed him? And you claim to be worthy of your rank, Captain? What's the job of an officer in your opinion? Tell me!"

"Colonel!" Kinch intervened, trying to get him away from the Englishman, convinced he was about to strike Lackey.

He stepped up behind him to get his arms around him, but he hadn't counted on the strength of the American colonel who refused to budge an inch. Nobody came to help Kinch. Carter, like most of the other prisoners, was much too shocked by what they had just learned from Lackey and by the violent reaction of his superior officer. Lebeau was satisfied just to observe the scenario, not coming up with anything to say regarding the colonel's anger, which was completely justified in his opinion. If Newkirk got himself killed because this coward had abandoned him, then he'd deserve the worst.

In any case, he was finally convinced that Hogan wasn't going to go so far as to actually strike the English captain, in spite of the fury that raged at the depth of his gaze.

"Tell me!" Hogan repeated, completely forgetting to lower his voice, clutching his fingers so tightly on the Englishman's clothing that he was beginning to suffocate.

"Colonel! You're going to wake the whole camp," Kinch tried to calm him, redoubling his efforts to get the colonel away from Lackey.

The statement had its desired effect. Kinch felt his superior's muscles relax a bit, as if Hogan had finally realized what he was doing.

As soon as the American's hands were off him, Lackey took a step backwards. He smoothed his shirt and gently rubbed his throat, without taking his eyes off the colonel, afraid he might come at him again. What could he say? He didn't even understand why Hogan was in such a state to begin with. For Newkirk? A mere corporal. It was unthinkable.

Colonel Hogan's voice pulled him out of those thoughts; it was calmer now, but oh how much sharper.

"An officer only exists to protect his men."

_To protect his men. _Newkirk had told him the same thing. Out there, in the forest, before everything had fallen apart. _You were his captain, it was your job to protect him, not mine! __And you abandoned him… _He hadn't understood. He hadn't understood the hidden meaning in those words. He hadn't understood that it wasn't just the question of student officer Mason anymore.

_You were my captain, it was your job to protect me… you abandoned me._

An officer's job…

oOo

For more than a quarter of an hour now the rain had been beating down viciously, with the welcome effect of erasing all traces of the blood that soaked the ground. Newkirk had tried to eradicate them, more or less, as he walked, but he had quickly given up on that. It didn't do any good and only wasted his energy. All he could do was to keep walking and get as far away as possible from the German patrols.

Or at least try, because the Englishman had no idea where he was. He might have been able to retrace his steps if he had thought of that. But he kept walking, dragging his injured leg behind him, trying not to let the pain and loss of blood stop him. He had lost his crutch. Where? He didn't remember, walking forward in the shadows, straight ahead, hardly conscious. Several times he had almost given in to the temptation to let himself slip down against a tree trunk and close his eyes. Just for a moment.

Then the rain had started to fall. He hadn't noticed right away, his mind foggy and his vision blurred. Only the icy wind on his wet clothing had managed to pull him out of his half-conscious state, making him realize that he needed to find some shelter. Anyway, he couldn't keep walking like this for long. His wound was still bleeding, slowly, the red liquid taking away with it the small amount of strength he had left.

He hadn't fallen, not once, knowing very well that he would never be able to get up again. But when he spied a hollowed-out spot on the ground, between the roots of a tree bigger than any he had ever seen before, Newkirk finally let his exhausted body have its way. He let himself fall to his knees, ignoring the pain that shot through his left leg. He was tired. So tired.

With one last effort, the Englishman crawled between the gigantic roots. He turned onto his side, pulling his legs up to his chest, looking for some way to get warm. He knew that he shouldn't fall asleep, but couldn't fight any longer against the peaceful darkness that was beginning to wrap itself around him. Letting his eyes close, Newkirk spared a thought for the animal that must have dug out this hollow, thanking it for the welcome shelter but most of all hoping that it had abandoned this refuge a long time ago. Considering the size of the hollow, there was little chance that it had been a rabbit…

He didn't have long to imagine himself being devoured by a bear or a wolf, since the darkness had already swallowed him up, driving away the pain and the fear.

oOo

In Barracks 2, there was no time for sleep. While Jones posted himself as lookout at the window, Hogan, Lackey, Lebeau and Carter stood around the table, the faint flame of a candle lighting the immediate vicinity.

"You were halfway. If Newkirk followed the plan to the letter, that should be right about here," the colonel indicating, pointing to a spot on the map with one finger.

"Probably," Lackey hesitated. "I really don't know the area…"

"Which direction did Newkirk take?" Hogan asked.

"Well, if we were really right here," the English captain thought, gesturing vaguely with his hand over the map, "then he must have gone this way. But he might well have changed direction after that."

"Or gotten himself caught," Lebeau added, throwing a venomous look in the Englishman's direction.

"Assuming that the captain's not mistaken, Newkirk could only have gone in one of two directions."

"Two, Colonel?" the Frenchman failed to understand.

"He wouldn't have turned around knowing he was being followed, for fear of leading the Gestapo right back here. For the same reason, he must have gotten as far away as possible from the rendez-vous point with the Underground."

"That's logical," Lackey agreed.

"But even knowing all that, you think we'll be able to find him before the Germans do?"

Carter's question was a good one. Two directions, that was already too many. The forest was thick. To find anyone in there without any more clues was almost impossible. And the Gestapo had a good head start over them.

Andrew drew up a chair and dropped into it, his face grim. He had begun to think that he would never see his friend alive again. There was so little chance that he'd be able to get out of this. A hand on his shoulder made him lift his head.

"Newkirk won't let himself get caught, Andrew," Lebeau reassured him.

The Frenchman was convinced, but he was no less worried than the young American. Although Newkirk was only slightly wounded, that would make it harder to hide, and more than that, he would be easier to track.

An idea crossed the Frenchman's mind and he moved away from the others to hoist himself up onto Newkirk's bunk.

At that moment, the bunk covering the tunnel entrance lifted up. Olsen, who had been seated on the mattress before it almost threw him off, helped Sergeant Kinchloe climb up into the barracks.

"I was able to contact the Underground," the American told them. "They were able to warn the guys who were supposed to meet Newkirk and the captain, but…"

"No sign of Newkirk," Hogan finished, his expression somber.

Kinch nodded silently.

"They recovered the documents concerning the French Underground, the excerpts of the interrogations, the films. The sub will leave as soon as they receive them."

"I can't get back to England?" Lackey wanted to know.

"Not at the moment, sir. You need to wait."

"_Mon colonel, _I have an idea."

All the men present turned towards Lebeau, who, up on his English friend's bunk, held Newkirk's hat in his hands.

oOo

_Let me out! Please… let me out…_

Newkirk woke with a start, unable to remember where he was, panicked by the darkness that surrounded him. He sat up with difficulty, pressing his back against the earthen wall. He still felt the walls so close by, too close, but he couldn't see the entrance, it was too dark. His heart, already so strained by the nightmare, began to beat harder and harder, his lungs felt squeezed, preventing him from breathing.

_Where am I? I can't breathe; let me out…_

He didn't know anymore if he was awake or asleep. He couldn't see anything, feeling only the wall pressing against his back. Like in his nightmare, like in his memories. Peter tried to draw in a deep breath but not an ounce of oxygen entered his lungs. He felt so terrible, so weak… And he didn't know why. The panic that engulfed him defied any logical thought or examination.

Peter tried to get up but his body wouldn't respond. He couldn't move, he was wedged in the small space and he couldn't move a muscle.

Tears began to stream down his frozen cheeks, then a beat of his heart that was more violent than the others turned his stomach. Newkirk didn't even have time to bend down before vomiting. Bile. He hadn't eaten anything this evening before leaving on the mission.

The mission… Images from the evening came back into his memory, reconnecting him with reality. He had found this shelter while he was being chased by the Gestapo. He was safe for the moment, but he was going to die here, alone.

Finding some semblance of control over his breathing and his heart rate, Newkirk wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and tried to consider the situation he found himself in, in spite of the fogginess that overwhelmed his brain. He had lost a lot of blood, but the flow must have stopped by now: if not, he'd already be dead.

The Englishman shivered. He was cold. His wet clothes probably accounted for some of that, but he wasn't so disoriented that he didn't realize he probably had a fever. If his wound was infected, he wouldn't get out of this. Not after all the blood he'd lost.

Keeping his back to the wall, Peter closed his eyes to keep the world from spinning around. Even the darkness seemed to dance, and it was making him sick.

As he fell again into unconsciousness, Newkirk's thoughts turned toward the people he loved. His sister who waited there at home; his friends who would move heaven and earth to find him. They would, eventually. He only hoped that it wouldn't be too late.

oOo

The rain had finally stopped, easing Kinch and Lebeau's progress through the woods. Colonel Hogan had decided to send only two of his men out to look for Newkirk. The fewer they were, the greater their chances of avoiding the Gestapo. On top of that, it was already hard enough to cover up the absence of three men at roll call. Their orders were to return for the five o'clock formation, but Hogan knew that neither Lebeau nor Kinch would ever give up before they'd found Newkirk.

A nearby bark attracted the attention of the two prisoners, who then headed in that direction.

Suddenly Kinch reached out and caught Lebeau, pulling him back. The Frenchman gave him a quizzical look and the American replied by shining his flashlight on the ground. Or rather, the emptiness that was there instead of the ground. One more step and the cook would have tumbled down there head over heels.

"Wolfgang?" the Frenchman called softly, looking carefully all around him.

The yelp that answered him was coming from below.

Carefully, the two prisoners began to make their way down the steep hill, hanging onto a few protruding rocks and bushes that they could reach. More than once one or the other of them nearly slipped, but they were finally able to make it down all right. Until an enormous creature sprang from the darkness to jump onto Lebeau, covering the French corporal with licks.

"Wolf!" Lebeau protested, smiling all the same at the obvious affection the animal had for him.

The German shepherd sat, frantically wagging his tail, then, when he was sure that the humans were going to follow him, he led them through the brush.

Lebeau and Kinch stopped short before the dog barked to announce his find. Blood. Fresh. There had to have been a lot, since the rain hadn't been able to erase all of it. As for the owner of the blood, the dog's behavior left no doubt.

Kinch cautiously approached the metal trap in case any others were in the area. The teeth were sharp and long, covered with dark stains. Newkirk's leg must be in shreds…

"We need to find him."

Kinch turned towards his companion, nodding in agreement. He had faith in the Englishman's strength, but with a wound like that, nobody could survive very long without any treatment.

Turning his gaze away from the horrible trap, Lebeau moved up next to Wolfgang, taking Newkirk's hat out of his pocket to let the dog have another sniff, and then Wolfgang took off like an arrow. Lebeau and Kinch took off after him. They didn't have a minute to lose.

oOo

Newkirk felt as if he were floating in a world of darkness. His spirit seemed to want to let go of the pain that his body was forcing him to feel, and Peter gratefully welcomed the sense of peace. He didn't feel his leg anymore; soon he wouldn't feel anything anymore.

Only the cold continued to torture him, burning him with each breeze, tearing the peaceful fog away from his unconscious. He was frozen, but that didn't keep him from sweating profusely. Now he was sure he had a fever, and more than a little.

While his brain was busy wondering if his body was hot or cold, a blinding light made the Englishman close his eyes. The pain in his head that had given him so much trouble up to this point returned with a vengeance, bringing burning and nausea along with it. Newkirk groaned with the agony it caused, but he forced himself to open his eyes.

Surrounded by a halo of golden light stood before him something that he thought was a wolf, his blurred vision not allowing him to distinguish any more detail in the animal. So he was going to wind up as dog food… There were better ways to end up.

The Englishman didn't even have the strength to lift his arm to protect himself when the beast advanced towards him, content to watch with his fevered gaze as death approached.

"Newkirk? Peter?"

"How did you know my name?" Newkirk succeeded in asking, speaking to the animal that stood in front of him, without understanding for an instant the absurdity of the question. In his current weakened condition, in both mind and body, the fact that a wolf knew his name appeared even stranger to him than the fact that a wolf could speak.

Once again, Newkirk let himself slip into unconsciousness, ignoring the warm wetness of the muzzle nestled at the nape of his neck.

**To be continued… **

**Here was the Lackey/Hogan confrontation everyone waited, I hope you are not disappointed. **

**I liked to write about Wolfgang in that chapter because I love German Shepperds ^^ Lol, all I have is a Shi Tzu… And poor Newkirk, I know I did not make it easy for him. **

**Reviews?**


	14. Chapter 14 : Fear, Hope, Shame, and Duty

**Hi! Thank you for reading and reviewing Prepare some tissues, this is a sad one. **

**Chapter 14**

**Fear, Hope, Shame, and Duty**

"Wolfgang?" Lebeau called softly, not daring to raise his voice.

He and Kinch had run across a small group of German soldiers standing only a few meters away, and had hidden themselves in the bushes waiting for them to disperse. The good news was that they were going in the opposite direction from the one the German shepherd had indicated, and that they had obviously not yet found their prey. The bad news was that during that time, the dark-furred dog had also vanished.

"Wolfgang?" the Frenchman tried again, sweeping the area with his flashlight. A crackling on his right made him jump, and he pointed his gun nervously in the direction of the sound.

Completely ignoring the threat of the gun and the light that illuminated his steps, a small hedgehog left his hiding place, passing casually in front of the two prisoners.

"Are you planning to shoot him for scaring you?" Kinch kidded.

Lebeau threw him a glower devoid of any humor and lowered his weapon, setting it back in his belt.

"I wasn't scared," he replied, a little ashamed to have almost filled such a harmless little creature with lead.

Kinch ignored the bad mood of his companion, bending down to examine the ground, still wet from the recent downpour. A clear pawprint showed in the mud, indicating which way the dog had gone.

They advanced slowly in that direction, calling the German shepherd from time to time, until finally a yelp answered them.

"Wolf?"

A light bark reassured them of the identity of the animal that they'd just heard.

"Over here," Kinch gestured, stepping over some branches.

He had spied some traces of blood that still glistened on the ground under their feet, but had preferred not to mention them to Lebeau. He was already worried enough. Who wasn't?

As they approached an incredibly large tree, the two prisoners heard, more and more distinctly, some small growls interspersed with whining.

"Wolfgang?" Lebeau called once more.

The dog's large head appeared as if by magic a few meters away from their position, sticking out of a small hollow dug out between the roots of the gigantic oak. Wolfgang called to his two human companions with an impatient yelp and then disappeared again amongst the roots.

He had found him.

"Newkirk? Peter?"

Lebeau ran towards the hollow, dropping to his knees in front of it, shining his light inside. He was there. Newkirk was there.

For an instant, Lebeau thought they were too late. The Englishman was as pale as death. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.

Wolfgang was stretched out across Newkirk's stomach, sharing with him the heat of his own body. He licked the Englishman's face and neck, growling softly as if trying to wake him.

A groan answered, and Lebeau released the breath he'd been holding while waiting for some sign of life from his friend.

Kinch joined the Frenchman, kneeling at his side.

"Wolf! Get out of there," he ordered the German shepherd, who instantly obeyed, sitting next to the big tree, watching his companions, ready to protect his humans from any threat.

By crawling, Lebeau was more or less able to make his way up to their unconscious friend, trying as much as he could to avoid letting his gaze rest on his companion's blood-stained leg. This was no time to faint.

The Frenchman squeezed himself up against the earthen wall, his shoulder against the unconscious Englishman's. He didn't have enough room to sit up even a little bit, to get a better look at his friend's condition. All he could do was try to wake him.

He bent over Newkirk and was seized by a moment of panic when he realized that he was barely breathing.

"Newkirk, wake up!" he pleaded, lightly patting his cheeks.

At his first touch of the Englishman's skin, Lebeau froze. He was burning up. But he wasn't flushed. He must have lost _so_ much blood…

"Louis," Kinch called, concerned that the Frenchman wasn't moving. "What's going on? Is Newkirk…"

The American couldn't finish his sentence, his throat growing tight at the thought that they must have gotten there too late to save their friend.

Lebeau wiped at his damp eyes with the back of his sleeve.

"It's going to be all right," he said, as much to reassure the sergeant as himself. "Take his legs, we have to get him out of here. And be careful of his wound."

Kinch acknowledged, although the Frenchman couldn't see his nod, and slipped into the hollow, passing his arms around Newkirk's knees. It would have been easier to pull him out by the ankles, but he couldn't risk reopening the pickpocket's wound. Without even considering the pain that would certainly cause him.

If he woke up…

Twisting himself around as best he could in the narrow space, Lebeau managed to get behind Newkirk and to get on his knees, his back against the wall of the small cavern. The Englishman's head rested on his shoulder, his ineffective breaths tickling his throat. Encircling the wounded man's body with both arms, Lebeau waited for Kinch's signal.

"On three," the American directed. "One, two, three…"

Kinch pulled gently on Newkirk's legs, trying the best he could to lift him to avoid dragging him roughly across the ground, while Lebeau worked his way forward on his knees with some difficulty, the Englishman's back against his chest. Dragging his legs along the ground that way would certainly leave him with some bad scrapes, but that would be nothing compared to the rest of Newkirk's very worrisome condition.

When the pickpocket's body was almost entirely out, Kinch relieved Lebeau of the weight, getting a good hold on the Englishman's arms to get him all the way out of the hollow, then laying him down on the damp grass.

Kinch began to examine his companion's condition while Lebeau climbed out of the hole. At first glance, he had certainly lost a lot of blood, which wasn't surprising given the nature of his wound. The fever was probably because of his weakened condition, due either to infection or the fact that Newkirk had found himself caught in a cold rain. It could also be due to all of those things combined…

Kinch took a knife out of his belt and started to cut away the cloth that kept him from getting a better idea of the Englishman's injury, but Lebeau caught his arm.

"The blood has dried over the wound; if you try to take the bandage off, it will start to bleed again."

That was true. He couldn't even remove the rudimentary tourniquet that Newkirk had put on in order to apply a better one, at the risk of making things worse. All that the two prisoners could do was to get their friend back to the stalag as quickly as possible.

"Do you think we're very far from camp?" Louis asked with hestitation.

He had followed Wolfgang and Kinch without really looking around at where he was going, only thinking about finding Newkirk. And now, he was afraid they were too far away.

"No. I don't think Newkirk did it on purpose, but the camp can't be more than twenty minutes away. In the dark, he must not have realized that he got turned around… Knowing the Gestapo was after him, he wouldn't have wanted to take the risk of knowingly coming back to camp."

The relief that he saw on the Frenchman's face relieved a little bit of his own worry. They were going to take their friend back to camp and take care of him.

That was the plan.

"Help me get him on my back."

The motion made Newkirk groan with pain. That reaction almost reassured Lebeau. Newkirk was still unconscious, but if he was reacting to pain at least he was still with them, fighting not to slip any further into the darkness.

They were ready to get started back when Wolfgang began to growl, his fur and his ears standing on end, his teeth bared, in the direction of some trees in the deep shadows. There was only one thing that could make the dog act like that.

Lebeau took up his weapon, ready to attack any German who put his friends' lives in jeopardy.

oOo

"There's one thing I don't understand," Carter said all of a sudden, breaking the heavy silence which had reigned in Barracks 2 ever since Kinch and Lebeau had left to look for Newkirk.

Most of the prisoners had gone back to bed, by order of their superior officer. But Hogan hadn't had any luck convincing Carter that staying up would bring his friends back any faster; Carter was only doing what he had to do. He was waiting until he was sure Newkirk was all right and that his three friends had returned safe and sound. And also, he didn't want the colonel to have to wait up alone.

So as not to disturb their sleeping companions, Hogan had invited Carter and Lackey to join him in his quarters. The Englishman clearly wasn't able to relax enough to be able to get to sleep.

Carter was sitting at the desk, silent, lost in his thoughts. The colonel was lying on the top bunk, trying to relax a little bit, without much success. His constant tossing and turning made the whole structure move, reminding Captain Lackey who was sitting on the lower bunk just how much the American colonel thought of his men. Hogan had the mark of a true leader, loved and respected. As for himself, he had nothing more than a few bars attached to his uniform. And for the first time since the start of his career, Lackey was ashamed of what he had become.

The results of the young sergeant's long reflection pulled both officers out of their own thoughts.

"How did you get surrounded by the Gestapo? I mean, you didn't run across the Germans before. Right? Then how did they manage to surprise you from behind? It's weird. At least, I think so."

Seeing the captain's expression, which practically screamed 'Shut up!', Carter tried to correct what he now thought had been a mistake.

"But I wasn't there, I can't really know…" he stammered, his eyes riveted on his folded hands.

Hogan sat up slowly on the bunk, letting his legs hang in mid-air as he fixed his sergeant with a piercing look.

"Actually, it's far from being stupid," he frowned, not daring to add "for a change". "Without even considering the incredible coincidence that all those patrols converged on your position at the same time," he added, jumping down from the bunk and facing the RAF captain for the second time that night.

"We stopped. To… to talk," the captain admitted, ill at ease.

The honesty of his admission wasn't going any farther; he omitted the uncomfortable part of the story.

"The soldiers probably heard us, and as the corporal and I were in the process of… arguing rather loudly, we didn't hear them in time."

"And General Eberhart was shot," Hogan continued, not missing the way the captain looked away at the mention of the Nazi's death.

He knew he was lying, only he didn't know what about.

"Colonel!" Jones came in to interrupt them, dressed in pajamas, opening the door without even knocking and running into a chair in his haste. "Ow!"

"Are they back?" Carter asked, getting to his feet, passing the English soldier who nodded his head in affirmation, gritting his teeth and rubbing the toes of his bare foot.

Hogan followed the young sergeant closely, silently praying that Kinch and Lebeau had found Newkirk. They wouldn't have come back so soon if that wasn't the case. Unless they were only bringing back some bad news instead of the corporal.

oOo

With difficulty, Kinch climbed the ladder that led to Barracks 2, using one hand to hold onto Newkirk's arms which hung over his shoulder. Behind him, Lebeau supported the Englishman, as much to prevent him from falling as to reduce the weight supported by the American sergeant. A sergeant who was relieved when there came a surge of other arms to take hold of the wounded man.

Several prisoners got a hold on Newkirk, laying him carefully on Carter's bunk. Carter ran up beside him.

"Newkirk," he called, giving him a shake that was a little rough. "Newkirk!"

Kinch caught him by the shoulders to guide him away from his friend.

"Go get Wilson."

Carter cast a worried look at Newkirk's motionless body and dove into the tunnel Lebeau had only just exited. Fortunately, Sergeant Wilson's barracks was linked to theirs by their underground network; that would avoid having to explain to the guards why he was walking around the camp in the middle of the night, provided that the guards would actually ask that question before firing.

Hogan's gaze was fixed on the sight of his corporal. Was he dead?

The other prisoners backed away to give him room to approach and he was relieved to realize that the corporal's chest was going up and down with the rhythm of his respiration. Barely, but it was there. At least he was alive. But the colonel's relief didn't last long. He then focused on Newkirk's blood-soaked leg, and couldn't help wincing at the sight of all that blood.

That explained why Lebeau had turned his head. The French corporal was in the habit of turning away whenever he saw blood. He must have had an incredibly good grip on himself not to have passed out on their way back to the camp. Adrenaline had probably helped a good deal.

"He stepped in a wolf trap," Kinch explained, pinching his lip as the memory of those bloodied iron teeth came back to his memory.

Hogan's eyes widened in horror, a sentiment shared by the other men, snatches of concern being murmured amongst them. Everyone knew what that kind of trap looked like, and some had already had occasion to see the damage they could cause. It was a cruel hunting technique, breaking the legs of the animals caught in the traps and inflicting terrible suffering before death finally claimed them.

Unconsciously shaking his head to avoid thinking about the state of the Englishman's leg, Hogan knelt next to his man and laid a hand on his forehead. He was as surprised as Lebeau at the contrast between the pallor of the wounded man's skin and the heat that was emanating from it. He smoothed the Englishman's hair with a paternal gesture, to reassure him. To reassure _himself_.

"Is he going to come out of this?" asked Jones, who had finally rejoined them, followed by Lackey whose expression was halfway between relief and horror.

Hogan looked, one by one, at the faces of each one of his men. They were all waiting for an answer. Only he didn't have a single one.

At that instant, Sergeant Wilson burst from the tunnel. With the very first glance at his patient, he understood the seriousness of the situation.

"Colonel, we need to get him into your quarters."

Hogan agreed silently.

"Kinch."

The sergeant got his arms around the Englishman to lift him up. He wasn't heavy; not heavy enough, actually.

Only Hogan's team was authorized to follow them into the colonel's quarters. It would have been impossible to keep them from entering anyway. Nevertheless, they remained at a certain distance, leaving Wilson enough room to do his work.

"I'm going to need some hot water, not boiling, and some dry clothes. His are soaked," the medic called out.

Lebeau immediately left the room.

"Okay," continued Sergeant Wilson, "I need some help to get his clothes off. How long has he been unconscious? Has he woken up at all?"

He gently lifted the Englishman's eyelids to check the reactivity of his pupils. At least, he wasn't in a coma.

"When we found him he was already unconscious. I thought that he woke up a few times when we were on our way back to camp. He murmured a few things that I couldn't make out."

"Did you have any trouble?" Hogan asked.

"A patrol almost had us," the sergeant admitted. "Luckily, Wolfgang started to run the other way. They must have heard him and they followed him; we were able to get back to camp with no problem thanks to him."

"I'm going to make him up a nice meal when he gets back to camp," remarked Lebeau, who had just returned with some white pajamas and some clean sheets. "I thought it would be better to cover his wound than his… nightshirt," he explained. "Olsen had two. Don't ask me where he found this one."

"Sergeant Carter, you can help me remove his things," Wilson requested, welcoming with gratitude the clean clothes that the Frenchman held out to him.

He preferred not to ask Lebeau to help. He was already having enough trouble not turning away every time his gaze accidentally fell on Newkirk's bloodied leg.

Sergeant Carter, who hadn't yet breathed a single word and had stayed seated with his back to the wall ever since they'd come into Colonel Hogan's quarters, nodded silently, and stepped up to the head of the bed, next to the doctor. Carefully, following Wilson's instructions, he got an arm behind his unconscious friend to get his head and shoulders up a little bit, using his other hand for support.

The young man seemed completely disengaged from what he was doing. When he'd seen Newkirk lying on his bunk, he'd been afraid he was dead, and even now, it was hard for him to believe that he was really still alive. His respiration was so shallow, his skin so pale.

Hogan frowned at the sight of the conscientious yet cold expression on his young sergeant as he helped the medic get Newkirk's clothes up over his head. The boy had been wracked by worry all evening and now that his friends had returned, his worry, instead of easing, had only grown worse. He was trying to hide his fear behind a mask of concentration, but, and Hogan knew this quite well, such a mask could never stay in place for very long.

It wasn't long before he had the proof.

They all knew that the wound on Newkirk's leg wouldn't be pretty. But still, they hadn't been expecting the mass of bruises that covered the corporal's body. Everyone remained silent at the sight of the dark marks until an uncontrollable sob pulled them out of their shock.

Carter rubbed his sleeve across his eyes but it was too late; everyone had seen the tears.

"It's not very pleasant to look at but there's probably no more than one broken rib," Wilson tried to reassure him gently, after having gently palpated the Englishman's ribcage, where the tender spots reacted reflexively to the unwelcome touch.

Carter, still supporting his friend, was more reassured by that movement than by Wilson's words. He swallowed his tears, trying to concentrate on Newkirk, sitting down on the bunk to let the Englishman's head rest against him to let the doctor more easily examine the marks.

"How could this have happened?" Hogan was trying to understand while Wilson examined the bruises and the several cuts that covered the Englishman's chest and arms.

"_Oh mon dieu," _Lebeau suddenly realized, remembering the place where Kinch had prevented him from falling when they'd lost Wolfgang's trail, and the German shepherd waiting for them down below. If he had really fallen down that hillside as the bruises suggested, he was lucky he hadn't broken his neck.

"Louis?" The colonel wanted a few more details.

Kinch, who had realized the same thing as the Frenchman, answered instead. "When we were following Newkirk, the dog led us to a really steep slope. We nearly broke our necks getting down. He must have slipped… I never even thought about that…"

His sergeant looked angry at himself for not having realized the extent of Newkirk's injuries, and Hogan reassured him with a pat on the shoulder.

"The important thing is that you're all here. Alive," he added, with particular attention to Carter who had turned his moist eyes away from his commanding officer.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door and Jones entered with a bowl of hot water. Lebeau took it from him and responded to his concerned look with a smile that he hoped was somewhat reassuring. The British soldier threw a quick look in the wounded corporal's direction but didn't stay, not wanting to disturb anyone.

"A broken rib. No internal bleeding," Wilson stated, thanking God for that much. The corporal had obviously already lost enough blood without that complication. "I'll get a bandage on it later. The important thing to get him warm and take care of that leg. Colonel?"

Hogan approached at the medic's request, waiting for him to finish getting the Englishman's shoes off before kneeling beside him, his eyes fixed on the blood that soaked the dark fabric of his pants. It took a whole lot of blood for black pants to take on that shade of red.

"Good. I'm going to keep pressure under his knee to avoid any more bleeding. We'll have to cut his pants off to expose the wound," the sergeant said as he removed the bandage that Newkirk had wrapped around his leg as a tourniquet.

The American colonel took the knife Kinch held out to him and began to cut the fabric. Meticulously, trying to ignore the damp stickiness of blood on his fingers. The blood clung to the folds of cloth. Hogan tried to pull it away but regretted it immediately; the motion made Newkirk writhe in pain.

Carter held the Englishman's arms to prevent him from moving around. It wouldn't really be the best moment to wake up. He felt his friend's body tremble against his own and put his arms around the Englishman's chest to try and reassure him, being careful not to press against his ribs. Newkirk groaned in his sleep, unconsciously trying to get himself out of the young sergeant's grasp.

Lebeau stepped forward to help him calm their friend, passing a damp cloth over the Englishman's forehead, gently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his pale skin, smoothing his hair with his free hand. The gesture seemed to calm Newkirk down and he finally relaxed, letting the colonel and the doctor to keep doing what they had to do.

"Soak a cloth in some water; that should help," Wilson suggested to his superior, who did so, not without a bit of hesitation.

He didn't want to hurt Newkirk any more than he was hurt already.

The effect of the hot water made it easier to get the cloth away from his skin, giving them all a painfully clear look at the bleeding gash.

Kinch caught Lebeau, who seemed to have forgotten that he couldn't stand the sight of blood, in mid-faint. The American helped the Frenchman sit down and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was hard to blame him; that gash was really difficult to look at. Even Hogan had broken into a cold sweat, but he kept carefully running the wet cloth over the deep, bloody marks, looking away only as much as he dared.

In spite of Newkirk's attempts to limit the damage, the steel teeth had literally shredded the flesh. The wound was very deep; the jaws had surely reached the bone and the pain that had resulted had to have been incredible.

After having removed the black pants that the Englishman habitually wore on missions and which were definitely ruined, Wilson cleaned the wound with water first, then with a little disinfectant that he had on hand. There was finally at least a little good news: the wound didn't appear to be infected. At the moment.

The corporal's fever was probably due mostly to his state of shock and to have had to stay in those wet clothes in such an icy wind. Nothing they couldn't handle. No. What really concerned Wilson, other than the leg, was the considerable loss of blood caused by the deep gash.

"I'm going to have to stitch up the wounds to make sure he doesn't lose any more blood," Wilson explained. "You might want to wait outside."

His advice was directly addressed to Lebeau, who seemed to be so dizzy that he was having trouble not sliding out of his chair. But the Frenchman wasn't his only concern; Wilson mostly wanted a little calm in order to care for his patient, and with all these fellows half-dead with worry around him, that wasn't going to be easy.

"I want to stay," Carter said in a small voice that even Wilson, who was sitting right next to him, had trouble hearing.

Hogan didn't have the heart to refuse. The young man was probably sure Newkirk could die if he even took his eyes off him for a second. Did he feel guilty over something? Because he had absolutely nothing to reproach himself about.

At any rate, Wilson was going to need some help, and Carter could probably handle that.

"Colonel. Roll call's in an hour," Kinch intervened, while helping Lebeau get on his feet. "We'll need to do something about Newkirk."

With all that, Hogan had nearly forgotten that they were in a POW camp. He nodded and opened the door that separated his quarters from the rest of the barracks. Kinch led Lebeau out of the room and Hogan followed. He would have preferred to stay by his corporal, but he had some thinking to do.

Newkirk was critically injured, and what Wilson could do for him wasn't going to be enough. Without even considering the total failure of the mission. With Eberhart dead, he was going to have to manipulate Klink and maybe even the Gestapo.

What more could be asked of him?

**To be continued. **

**I warned you, it was not a really happy chapter but Newkirk is home and it is the most important. **

**Reviews are, as always, welcome!**


	15. Chapter 15 : A Doctor in the Stalag

**Chapter 15 –**

**A Doctor in the Stalag**

Wilson had barely disappeared into the tunnel when the door of the barracks opened on Schultz, whose dark under-eye circles attested to his lack of sleep. There could be no doubt that he had been on alert all night.

He was about to order the prisoners to get out of bed, like he did every morning, then realized that most of them were already up and dressed. He sent a suspicious look in the direction of Colonel Hogan, who was sitting at the table along with Kinch, Olsen and Jones, and he noted, in spite of his own fatigue, that no one among them seemed to have gotten any sleep last night either.

He wasn't stupid. He knew that the colonel must have had something to do with the cooler explosion, and the disappearance of General Eberhart. But that wasn't his problem; all that was being asked of him was to see that the prisoners were all present for roll call. It wasn't important what they were doing the rest of the time…

"Colonel?" he hesitated, for fear of again finding himself in the middle of one of their suspicious activities. "Where are Newkirk, Carter and Lebeau?"

If the three of them were absent, the sergeant knew that he was in deep trouble. Making a connection between their disappearance and that of the general wouldn't take long, and it would be he who would suffer the most for it. The colonel's silence only increased his fears. Something was wrong. Hogan had often told him that his men weren't all present, but he had never seen that expression on the American's face before.

He had strained features, and a haunted look about him.

"Schultz," the colonel began, getting to his feet to approach the German sergeant.

The German held his breath. What could be worse than three prisoners missing roll call? Something must have happened to one of them.

Instead of explaining what had happened, Hogan signaled for Schultz to follow him into his quarters. Schultz looked at the wooden door that opened slowly, certain that he was going to find the dead body of one of the prisoners stretched out on the bed.

That wasn't too far from the truth.

Newkirk's face was so pale that it would be easy to think he was dead, if his skin hadn't been so covered with a light layer of moisture and his chest hadn't been rising, almost imperceptibly, with the rhythm of his breathing.

Lebeau, seated at his bedside, was gently running a damp cloth over his forehead, while Carter stood by watching the Englishman as if to reassure himself that he was still alive. The American sergeant was standing at the head of the bed, silent, but when he saw his colonel enter along with Schultz, he walked past them to get out of the room, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall again with his sleeve.

"What's wrong with him?" the German managed to ask, hardly able to admit how much of a shock the sight was for him.

Schultz knew that he wasn't supposed to get attached to the prisoners, but it was hard. Lebeau made him such nice meals, and Newkirk… Newkirk was always showing off, entertaining the camp with his jokes and his magic tricks. Everyone liked him. The prisoners, of course, but also a good number of the guards, himself included. To see him so still like this seemed almost unreal.

The Englishman had been teasing him for a long time but it had never been in a cruel way, and Schultz liked to think that he considered him, even a little bit, like a friend. In spite of their being on two different sides of the war.

"He probably caught something when Eberhart made him spend the night outdoors," Hogan answered.

"But he was fine yesterday."

"That's what I thought too. Looks like we were wrong… Newkirk needs to see a doctor. If he doesn't, I'm afraid he won't last the day."

These words earned him a terrified look from Schultz, but also from Lebeau; the Frenchman dropped the damp cloth into the bowl of water at his feet in order to hold the Englishman's pale hand between his own.

"I'm going to get the commandant!" Schultz seemed to wake up, leaving the American colonel's quarters as fast as his considerable weight would permit.

"Colonel?"

Hogan lowered his gaze to meet that of his cook.

"You really think that Newkirk might… really…"

"I don't know…"

It was an honest answer. Maybe too honest. But they were at war, and every war required sacrifices. This one would be a lot more bitter than any of the others.

"You know that a doctor won't be able to overlook that wound. To hide it from Schultz and Klink isn't hard, but a doctor…"

"That's a risk we have to take. Wilson has already done all he can; he doesn't have the necessary equipment. And we can't get it for him before the Gestapo leaves and things calm down a little. I'll find some way to explain."

The doubt in his superior's voice didn't escape Lebeau, but he didn't make any comment, contenting himself with taking up the damp cloth again to wipe away the sweat that had beaded on his friend's forehead.

oOo

It only took one look to convince Klink of the seriousness of Newkirk's condition. He didn't even get near the prisoner, the fear of some contagious disease keeping him at a distance, and he was convinced to contact Stalag 4 to borrow their doctor.

A little while after the phone call, the lifeless corpse of General Eberhart was returned to the camp.

"Hogan, I really don't know what to do…" the German colonel lamented, his head in his hand. "First you tell me that the general is a traitor, and now he's dead."

The American colonel had other concerns on his mind, but he made every effort to appear compassionate, holding a glass of schnapps out to the commandant. Usually, he would have taken the opportunity to have one himself, but since the doctor hadn't arrived yet from Stalag 4, he knew he wouldn't be able to swallow a thing, with worry turning his stomach and knotting his throat.

"It seems logical to me," he remarked, attracting a curious look from the German.

"How could that be logical? If Eberhart had really blown up the cooler, why would he have been executed by the Underground if he was one of their allies?"

"Maybe he wasn't with the Underground, and if that's the case, you're right, they wouldn't have any reason to eliminate him. A German general is worth much more alive."

That was true. Alive he would have been able to furnish very valuable information…

"But then why? How? You're going to tell me again that the Gestapo…"

Hogan didn't say anything, but nodded slowly to show Klink that he was on the right track.

"_Noooooooo_… yes?"

Another nod from Hogan. After all, it wasn't far from the truth. If you believed Lackey, it was indeed a stray bullet from the Gestapo that had put an end to Eberhart's life.

"Yes, it's completely possible…" Klink murmured to himself, as if the senior POW wasn't even present. "The Gestapo… after all, they're capable of anything, and getting rid of a traitor is much easier if you make it look like an execution orchestrated by the Underground. A bullet in the back, that's one of their methods."

Hogan blinked at this last remark of Colonel Klink's. A bullet in the back? That was very strange. Not impossible, but strange. He would have to ask Newkirk to confirm Lackey's version of events when he woke up. If he woke up…

The American shook his head to get rid of those bleak thoughts and concentrated anew on what Klink was continuing to babble to himself.

"If that's really the case, then I'm going to have problems. If the Gestapo discovers what I know, they're going to come after me."

Seeing that the commandant was beginning to panic, Hogan thought it was reasonable to intervene and reassure him:

"Don't worry, colonel; just do like you always do."

"Like I always do?" the German failed to understand.

"Make like you don't know anything and everything will be fine."

The remark was a bit sharper than he would have liked, but, fortunately, Klink didn't even notice the obvious hidden meaning, being far too concerned with his own safety.

The commandant was about to thank Hogan for his advice when three sharp knocks sounded at the door, which was opened by Schultz.

"The doctor is here, commandant. Shall I take him to Newkirk?"

Hogan didn't give Klink the time to respond, leaping up from his chair to welcome the doctor and bring him himself to his corporal.

oOo

Hogan opened the door for the doctor and invited him to enter the barracks. He must have been a little over fifty years old, with blond hair just beginning to turn gray in spots. His step was the sure one of a career military man, and the look in his deep blue eyes was firm but somewhat mellowed by the small creases in the corners of his eyes.

Schultz followed the doctor, stopping for an instant to smell the delicious aroma of breakfast that was in the air. Lebeau had made a lot of potato pancakes in the hopes of lifting the prisoners' spirits a little bit, whose behavior definitely showed their concern. Most were lying on their bunks, waiting in silence. Others were seated at the table, trying, without a lot of interest, to play a game of cards. Their hearts weren't in it. Everyone was expecting bad news.

Wilson had come back to his patient to re-do the bandages before the doctor had arrived from Stalag 4. He watched apprehensively as Hogan entered his quarters followed by the two Germans. There was no chance for this doctor sent by Klink to overlook these injuries. He only hoped that Hogan had come up with a credible story to tell him.

Hogan saw the doctor's eyebrows come together the second he saw Newkirk. Had he already guessed that something was up?

The doctor then turned to Schultz, who had stayed in the doorway.

"Wait for me outside."

"But, Colonel Klink…"

"Nothing will happen to me. These boys aren't going to come after me, are they?"

"I… I don't think so," the sergeant replied, still throwing a questioning look at Colonel Hogan.

The shaking of the colonel's head reassured him, and he decided to do what the doctor had said. After all, he didn't want to bother him. The Englishman's life surely depended on that. Going along, he closed the door behind him, letting himself be led by the aroma of the pancakes all the way to the table, where the card players had given up dealing the cards and were anxiously watching the closed door of their colonel's quarters.

As soon as Schultz left the room, the doctor from Stalag 4 turned towards Hogan:

"Show me his wound," he directed.

Hogan didn't move. He knew that the doctor would soon realize that Newkirk hadn't caught some illness, but he hadn't expected that the discovery would come this quickly. That took him completely by surprise, leaving him speechless.

The German seemed to be able to understand the American colonel's thoughts, reading the concern and the doubt in his eyes.

"A more thorough examination is not necessary for me to conclude from his pallor that your friend has recently lost a great deal of blood. So, the wound?"

At that, the doctor approached his new patient, taking Wilson's hand as he passed by him standing beside the bed.

"Sergeant Wilson… I took care of the first aid but I don't have the necessary equipment."

He also feared that the German might compromise their entire operation when he discovered the nature of Newkirk's injury, but there was no going back now. The Englishman needed something to lower the fever. As well as the pain.

In spite of his doubts, Wilson was reassured by the German's warm handshake. "Dr. Lorenz, Frank Lorenz."

Recognizing a professional colleague in Wilson, he at once asked him about the details of the situation regarding the corporal stretched out on the bunk, hardly budging at the sensation of the damp cloth being passed over his forehead by Carter. The young sergeant kneeling at the head of the bed was watching the doctor with a mixture of hope and fear. Like the others, he didn't know what to expect, but hoped that the doctor would be able to do something for his friend.

"He's lost a lot of blood. I was able to stitch up the wound and disinfect it, but I'm afraid that won't be enough. He needs something stronger. His fever's gone up quite a bit since… his accident."

Lorenz knelt beside the wounded man and carefully took his wrist between his fingers to check his pulse. He had noticed the reluctance of his American counterpart to give him any details, but that didn't surprise him. At Stalag 4, it was usual for the prisoners to fear reprisals, often being wounded during an attempted escape.

"Show me."

Wilson did so, lightly pushing back the blanket covering the Englishman to lift up the leg of his pants, exposing the bandage that he had just put on, which was already stained with red.

The German doctor began to unwrap it very carefully and made no comment as to the nature of the wound. There was only one type of trap that could do this much damage, and it would be very unlikely to find one inside a POW camp. His conscientious comportment and the complete absence of insinuation on Lorenz' part reassured Hogan and his men, the tension present in the room lowering considerably.

"The stitches are clean," the German remarked. "Good work. There'll be scars, but at least the leg was saved." Lorenz gently palpated the edges of the wound. "There doesn't seem to be any infection at the moment, but it's just a question of time. What have you given him?"

"I only had some alcohol to disinfect it," Wilson admitted. "Not enough for it to be really effective, but at least the wound is clean."

Indicating his bag, resting by the door, he asked, "Could you bring that to me please, Colonel?"

He did so, but the doctor didn't take the bag he held out to him.

"There's some penicillin in the outside pocket and some syringes inside," explained Lorenz while he redid the bandage, covering up the Englishman's legs with the blanket once more.

The American colonel gave him what he asked for and watched while the German tapped the crook of Newkirk's elbow before inserting the needle. He saw Carter instinctively close his eyes and grit his teeth as the serum slipped slowly into his friend's vein.

"That should be enough to lower the fever," the doctor commented. "But the fever isn't what worries me the most."

"The anemia…" Wilson finished. "I got him to drink a few swallows of sugared water, but the loss of blood is really the issue."

"Blood supplies are rare in time of war," the German commented. "And no hospital will use up their stock on a prisoner."

There was no disdain in the doctor's voice, only a cruel certainty.

"I could give him mine," young Sergeant Carter suggested in an uncertain tone.

"I don't really have all the necessary equipment, but it's possible…" Lorenz replied. "It's dangerous, but I'm afraid there's no other solution. What's your blood type?"

"A-negative."

Wilson took hold of Newkirk's dogtags to check his blood type and shook his head. "A-positive."

"I'll do it," Hogan spoke up, turning his own dogtags between his fingers.

At that moment three knocks sounded at the door and the worried voice of Schultz reached them, muffled by the wood. "Doctor? Is everything all right?"

Obviously he had finished his pancakes. As soon as he had, Lebeau must have chased him out of the area around his stove.

"I'm just about finished, Sergeant. Wait just a few more moments."

Lorenz dug in his bag and pulled out several syringes, some penicillin, a few pouches for collecting blood or saline solution, and a long flexible tube. He slid them under the bed at the astonished looks of the prisoners present, got to his feet and turned toward Wilson.

"I'll tell Colonel Klink to leave your friend in quarantine here and not to let anyone come near him except the prisoners of this barracks. If he's afraid of a contagious disease, he should leave you in peace long enough to take care of this boy. You can hide that wound for a while but if your friend recovers, and I'm sure that will be the case, he'll have trouble walking for a while…"

"We'll let him know when the time comes," Hogan confirmed.

"I'm leaving you what you need for a transfusion," the doctor continued, talking to Wilson. "But be careful, his body may have a violent reaction if he gets too much."

At that, Lorenz offered his hand to his colleague, then to Hogan, and they both shook hands with him gratefully.

"Thank you, doctor," said the colonel.

"It's my job, Colonel. I do what I have to do."

But how many doctors would concern themselves with the health of enemy prisoners? How many would be content to let them die so as not to waste any precious medicine? How many would do even worse?

**To be continued. **

**Reviews? **


	16. Chapter 16 : Dark Past

**Chapter 16**

**Dark Past**

Wilson had obtained Klink's permission to stay in Barracks 2 for a while in order to better watch over his patient. The quarantine had given him the necessary peace to prepare the process of the transfusion. It wasn't an ideal set-up, but it was the best they had.

The American doctor took eight hundred milliliters of blood from Colonel Hogan in spite of his protests not to stop there. He didn't want to have _two_ anemics on his hands, and anyway, he couldn't risk transfusing too much blood to Newkirk. A rejection reaction was the last thing the young Englishman needed.

Newkirk's color had improved following the transfusion, and he had even briefly opened his eyes; this return to consciousness, however fleeting, reassured everyone about his chances of pulling through.

Unfortunately, the fever had returned, an inevitable side-effect of the transfusion of blood into his veins. It could have been worse, but the fever was sufficiently high to concern Wilson.

oOo

The Englishman tossed in his sleep, still fighting the demons that only he knew of. The shadows. The fear of never again feeling the sun on his face, not to remember the light… And the cold; insidious and cruel.

Newkirk murmured a few phrases that didn't make any sense, but a few words were endlessly repeated:

"Not the box. Please. Not the box."

Hogan, who was alone in the room with his corporal, got up from his desk to go kneel down next to Newkirk. At hearing those few words, he frowned, not knowing if the Englishman was trapped in a nightmare or in his memories. He pulled the blanket up over the young flier's shoulders and rested the back of his hand on his forehead. He was still burning up.

Outside the barracks, the activity was at its height. The Gestapo had brought in some reinforcements, determined to get their hands on those responsible for the death of their general. All they needed was for someone like Hochstetter to come in and start stirring things up for the situation to go completely out of control.

No mission had ever gone so badly.

Lost in his thoughts, the American officer didn't hear the knock on his door and nearly jumped when he heard Kinch's voice.

"Colonel."

His sergeant's even tone told Hogan that he didn't want to speak in his quarters, for fear of disturbing Newkirk, whose sleep was anything but restful judging by his agitation.

Hogan accompanied him out of the officer's quarters, taking care to close the door behind him.

"Please, Kinch, tell me Hochstetter didn't just arrive in camp."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow, surprised, and Hogan thought for an instant that he had just put his finger on it.

"No. About fifteen soldiers are here but Major Hochstetter's not with them. We really don't need that on top of everything else," Kinch added, perfectly echoing his superior's thoughts.

"That's for sure."

"The Underground contacted us. We might be able to get Captain Lackey out of camp before the submarine leaves for England."

The colonel's face lit up with interest, and he waited for the rest of the news.

"The Gestapo is covering the forest and the roads for several miles around the camp, but they don't have enough dogs to cover all that area."

"Schnitzer!" the colonel exclaimed, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot for not having thought of the camp's veterinarian sooner.

"Klink asked him to bring a dozen dogs. Schnitzer's going to leave the truck next to the kennel and he won't leave until nightfall, to allow the captain to get into the truck with a few dogs he's bringing out with him."

"Brave man…"

If the German veterinarian had been there, Hogan could have kissed him for the weight his assistance had just lifted from his shoulders. They couldn't keep Lackey at the stalag, and if he missed the sub, God only knew when the next one would be. And then, in addition, he didn't want to have the British captain around any longer than necessary.

A loud noise in the other room brought Hogan back to his main concern. He ran into his quarters to find his corporal on his knees at the foot of his bed, trying unsuccessfully to get up. He didn't even seem to feel the pain from his injured leg, and it was obvious that he just didn't understand why it refused to cooperate. His gaze was glassy with fever and flashed from one corner of the room to the other, as if lost.

Hogan took hold of his arm to help him back into bed, but the corporal pulled away sharply from his grasp. He was looking right at him without even recognizing him.

"Newkirk?" the colonel tried, kneeling next to the Englishman.

The words that crossed Newkirk's lips broke his heart. The Englishman was looking right at him without seeing him. In his mind it wasn't Colonel Hogan who was there, right in front of him.

"Captain…" he murmured helplessly. "Not the box, not the box. I'll confess, I swear. I'll confess, but not the box…"

Hogan remained motionless and looked on powerlessly at the tears slipping down the Englishman's cheeks while he tried to get away from him, or rather from Lackey, not being able to get very far, his back striking the side of the bunk. Realizing that he couldn't get away, Newkirk drew his legs up to his chest and let the sobs consume him, his face buried in his trembling arms.

oOo

[_Flash back_]

The soldiers hadn't taken long to find him and surround him. Newkirk lifted his hands slowly to show that he wasn't going to give them any trouble during this very probable arrest. The fact that he was on the same side as these fellows wouldn't prevent them from shooting if it became necessary. He knew that perfectly well; he had trained, eaten and joked with these guys. They were brothers in arms. To his great disappointment, none of the English soldiers who had him in their sights seemed the least bit surprised. Even if they weren't men from his own unit, they had spent a lot of time together, and for them to think he was guilty of a crime without any hesitation hurt him deeply.

There was the same disgust in their eyes as had always been in Captain Lackey's when he was in his presence. At least his instructor was no hypocrite. Not like these men, who yesterday had seemed to enjoy his company, his tricks and his stories. So, nothing about human nature surprised him anymore; he had already seen too much. He was only disappointed.

Lackey arrived then, smiling a victorious smile when he saw who his men had found roaming around a deserted hangar after curfew and only a few minutes after the theft had been discovered. The indications were there. He had their thief.

"Newkirk," he said. "Why am I not surprised?"

His subordinate didn't reply, content to simply smile innocently.

"Where's the money?" the captain asked, standing eye to eye with the corporal.

The cockney said nothing, but his clear eyes shone with a malice close to insubordination. Lackey had to restrain himself from hitting him to wipe that sly smirk from his face, he knew very well that violence would never get him anywhere with this man.

Newkirk tried to appear as relaxed as possible, but in his heart, questions were flying fast and furious. He had decided to take responsibility for the theft on the spur of the moment, but the consequences might ruin his budding career, and worse, get him sent to prison.

One look in the direction of the crates behind which young Mason was hiding confirmed his decision. He was already a lost cause, while the boy still had so much to learn in life. He would protect him. After all, he had promised, and Peter Newkirk kept his word.

Lackey gave an order, then two soldiers took hold of him, each one taking an arm. To think that they were afraid he might attack them…

Preceded by the captain, they led him straight to the building that held the solitary-confinement cells. The cells were all right. He had already spent several days in them, for various reasons. Often because whenever an incident occurred, Lackey had been convinced that he had been the cause of it. But sometimes for good reasons. If Newkirk did most often toe the line, he couldn't always prevent certain impulses from coming to the surface, and woe to anybody who dared take him on in those moments.

Yes, he could put up with the cells. The cells that they had just passed by…

Panic overcame the Englishman.

Lackey wasn't planning to simply lock him up and patiently await the trial. He was bringing him down to the very bottom of the prison building, towards that room where he had only been brought once before, when he had clumsily botched a magic trick which had resulted in setting fire to the mess hall. Fortunately the fire had been quickly brought under control. However, the accident had been enough for Lackey to feel justified in punishing him that way.

Of course, the soldiers weren't physically mistreated for simple mistakes. But the captain had his own methods to make them understand that they were going to toe the line. The State Council probably wasn't admissible, but in time of war, who was going to worry about that? In these times more than ever, iron discipline must be the rule.

Newkirk stopped abruptly, trying to wrest himself away from his guards. His attempt made Lackey smile.

"Is there a problem, Corporal?"

"Captain… not the box! I'll say anything you want, but not that, I'm beggin' you."

"Tell me where you hid the money and I'll be happy to put you in a cell that's more… comfortable."

Newkirk knew that the RAF captain wasn't putting him on. Although he had never been able to stand the man, he knew that he made it a point of honor to keep his promises. Except that the corporal had no idea where that damned money could possibly be. All he knew was that Mason must have hidden it in a safe place, and he couldn't betray the kid.

Getting a hold of himself as best he could, Newkirk stopped resisting the two soldiers who were beginning to have a hard time holding onto him.

"Please…" he tried once more, knowing very well that begging wasn't going to have any effect on the captain. All he wanted was the money intended for the families of the fallen soldiers. And he was convinced that Newkirk had hidden it somewhere. Nothing could make him change his mind except the truth, but that was out of the question.

Lackey bent down in front of the door they had just arrived at, at the very bottom of the stockade building. It was already dark down here and Newkirk knew that the situation wasn't going to get any brighter.

The door, if one could call it that, was forged from thick steel and was only half the size of a standard door, both in height or in width. No light, no sound, could penetrate it.

While his two guards pushed him towards the entrance of the tiny room, Newkirk suddenly felt the need to admit the truth, and had to bite his tongue to stop himself. One hand grabbed his hair, pushing hard on his head to force him to bend down and go into that place that terrified him so much. A ceiling too low for a man to stand up, walls too close for him to lie down, it was more like a box than a room…

Newkirk was not claustrophobic. This was different. The only time he had ever been brought here, he had only stayed two hours. Those two hours had been the longest ones of his life. Not a ray of light, not a sound except for his own respiration, and _that_ sound becoming more and more terrifying as the seconds passed. That box had been the very embodiment of nothingness, and when he had finally been released, he hadn't been able to speak again until the next day, convinced that reality would break if he so much as dared to breathe a word.

Since that experience he had been a model of discipline, and yet, today here he was again in the same situation.

"How long?" he asked softly as he was forced inside.

The captain didn't reply and closed the door, the sinister click of the lock definitively cutting off the outside world, and from the life that soon, for him, would seem like nothing more than a faraway mirage.

[_End flash back_]

oOo

With the help of Kinch and Wilson, Hogan had succeeded in getting Newkirk back to bed. The medic had managed to calm him with the help of some pills left by Dr. Lorenz. They weren't very powerful, but given the Englishman's state of exhaustion, it was enough to make him sleep and to ease his torment.

The fever had begun to go down, a very good sign, but he continued to toss and turn in his sleep.

Having a pretty good idea what could possibly terrify his corporal that much, Hogan had called for Lackey to confirm his suspicions.

"Sensory deprivation…" The American colonel was trying to contain the anger which showed in his voice, but that was pretty much a lost cause. His gaze rested on Newkirk who was still murmuring and shifting in the bed, in spite of Carter's efforts to keep him calm.

"Sensory deprivation…" he repeated, as if to make the whole thing less unbelievable.

Lackey hadn't bothered to deny it. According to him, in time of war not everything could be run in to ideal conditions, and he wasn't completely wrong about that. Any disciplinary procedure would have been needed as soon as it was introduced. The army needed cannon fodder, whether it was criminals or someone else. It was the job of their superiors to see that those soldiers followed orders. But _that_, that _box_ as he called it; that was nothing but a form of torture.

"A simple isolation cell," the British captain corrected. "One or two hours inside was enough for my men to learn obedience."

"If you were in _my _army…" Hogan murmured.

"I never harmed my men in any way, Colonel Hogan. I can't say as much for all the officers that I knew. Discipline is indispensable, especially now with this never-ending war."

"No harm? Look at Newkirk, captain, and tell me that you never harmed him."

As Hogan would have bet, Lackey didn't dare look in the direction of the bunk where the corporal was lying.

"How could I have known that he didn't take that money? And how can I even be sure of that today?"

The English captain appeared to be asking those questions in all honesty, and it was in all honesty that Hogan responded:

"Just take my word for it, like I'm taking Peter's."

His use of Newkirk's first name reminded Lackey of the degree of closeness enjoyed by these men he had met here and who came from so many different places. They trusted one another, and they didn't need any proof to believe in one another. He would have given anything to know that kind of trust, to experience a solid friendship like the one that linked all the members of the American colonel's team. Back in the old days, he should have known the joys of such friendship, but that was in the past. There had been too many battles, too many dead since then…

Hogan shared an accord beyond compare with his men. He was one of them, not just their commanding officer. His men held him in the highest regard and gave him their respect. He was an exception among officers, but it might well be that he was not the one who was the exception.

"How long did you leave him in there?"

The question had been nagging him for a long time; he knew very well that just an hour or two wouldn't have been enough to cause such damage to his corporal. He knew his strength of character far too well.

Lackey hesitated, turned his eyes away, and finally admitted it without trying to temper his shame:

"Ten days."

Hogan's heart leapt in his chest. He could have strangled the English officer right on the spot, if Carter's relieved voice hadn't redirected all his attention to his corporal.

"Newkirk? Hey, how you doin', buddy?"

Immediately forgetting all of his resentment towards Lackey for the moment, Hogan went to find Wilson, who was passing the time telling the prisoners a few stories, stories including an incredible amount of graphic detail as to wounds and operations that the medic had had occasion to see. A few were so strange that they made great stories. Although, in Lebeau's opinion, even with fewer sordid details it would have been just as entertaining. The Frenchman was trying to concentrate on making dinner to avoid letting the bloody mental pictures take him over completely. He couldn't risk fainting and letting this wonderful fish burn.

Newkirk took a moment to get used to the light, wondering if he was still asleep or not. Carter's happy face proved that he wasn't, as did the pain that surged through his chest when the sergeant literally threw his arms around him.

"Hey! Easy, Andrew, I feel like I've been run over by a train…" the Englishman winced.

"That's not too far from the truth, Corporal," Wilson, who had just appeared nearby, confirmed. He gently moved Carter away, to allow his patient to breathe.

"You still have a fever, don't move around too much," the sergeant directed as he took a look at the reactivity of the Englishman's pupils.

Lebeau and Kinch had followed the doctor in and the whole team was around Newkirk's bed, anxiously watching their friend as Wilson examined him.

"I think our young friend is out of danger," he finally reassured him, a big smile illustrating his relief. "How about your leg, does it hurt?"

"My leg?" Newkirk asked, before recalling the wolf trap and realizing that, actually, his leg didn't hurt all that much. The pain was far from being as bad as it had been before. Whatever Wilson had given him, he was very grateful.

That simple memory overcame all the others, and Newkirk swept the room anxiously with his eyes. Lackey was standing near the door, not really knowing whether or not he should stay in the room.

"Captain," Newkirk couldn't keep himself from saying, the relief in his voice surprising everyone, most of all Lackey.

The English corporal didn't fully understand, and the fever was probably to blame for that. But he was reassured to see that he hadn't led the Gestapo on that chase for nothing. The captain was safe, he had at least succeeded in that. But he had ruined the mission, Eberhart was dead…

Newkirk's face fell.

"Newkirk?" said Lebeau gently, from his place at the head of the bed.

"Don't worry, Louis, I'm okay," his friend reassured him after a moment of silence.

He was tired; so tired. His eyes were closing all by themselves and he only wanted one thing, to return for a moment into the arms of Morpheus. Just one moment.

"Newkirk," the colonel's voice was firm and obliged him to focus a bit less on his companions. "Newkirk," Hogan tried again, "What happened with Eberhart?"

The American hated himself for having to ask that question since the wounded corporal clearly needed rest, but he needed to know.

"Captain Lackey told us that you were surrounded and that the general took a stray bullet. Is that what really happened? Newkirk?"

Newkirk really didn't know how he was supposed to reply. Lackey had killed Eberhart; there was no doubt of that. He met the gaze of his former captain. A gaze devoid of any expression.

"Yeah," he finally replied in an exhausted voice. "Yeah, that's what happened."

Hogan nodded and pressed his arm gently in a gesture of thanks for having replied. A few seconds later, the Englishman was sound asleep, this time a sleep free of nightmares.

Hogan knew for sure that Newkirk had just lied to him, and yet, he had never been so proud of his corporal.

**To be continued.**


	17. Chapter 17 : A Better Man

**Hi! Thank you for the reviews and the happiness they bring me It is the last long chapter, then it will be the epilogue and… well… the end. **

**I hope you will not be disappointed and that you will pass a good moment reading that chapter in our Heroes company. **

**Chapter 17**

**A Better Man**

Through the half-open door of the officer's quarters, Royal Air Force Captain Cameron Lackey was watching his former corporal with a new respect as he slept peacefully.

All the men of the barracks were enjoying their dinner, while outside the sun was slowly getting lower in the sky, bathing the stalag with golden light. Colonel Hogan had invited him to join them so he could build his strength up a bit before getting into the truck that would take him to the Underground. He had appreciated the invitation, knowing very well that the American's sentiments towards him were far from friendly, but he didn't feel up to sharing a meal with the men.

They were heroes. Prisoners of war who stayed here of their own accord, at the mercy of the Germans, to lead these interior sabotage operations and relay information of inestimable value along to London. They all risked their lives every day, every one of them. Peter Newkirk, the good-for-nothing, the child of the slums, was a hero. And Lackey had to admit that it put into question everything that he had ever believed thus far. He who so many times had walked so proudly, what was he really?

Not a hero; not like these men who were talking so happily around the table, not like Newkirk who had risked his life for a captain he hated. No, he himself was no hero.

The English captain gently probed the painful marks that still covered his face, proof of the corporal's hatred. Of his anger, of his pain? Lackey didn't know anymore. The colonel had told him what he was convinced was the truth. Newkirk had only wanted to protect the young officer Joshua Mason, and he had protected him in spite of the consequences. To learn that in spite of it all the kid had taken his own life had to have been a terrible shock, and Lackey had only now begun to understand that.

In the end, Newkirk had probably been the most faithful of his men, refusing to let any of his comrades down. No other member of his unit would have done the same for him. And that had pleased Lackey; he couldn't deny it. He had let them beat him, day after day, until the cockney had been forced to leave…

If only he could turn back time. But the harm had been done.

Newkirk seemed to be coming out of his doze and Lackey wondered for a moment if he shouldn't let the doctor, who was seated at the table with the other prisoners, know.

He entered the room, pushing the door closed behind him and advancing tentatively in the direction of the corporal who was starting to open his eyes. When Newkirk saw who was with him in the room, he couldn't stop his muscles from tensing up and from backing away instinctively. That reaction, however fleeting, didn't escape Lackey's notice, and he thought for a moment that he should just turn around and go.

Troubled, he stayed in the middle of the room, a heavy silence hanging between the two men.

"Could I have a glass of water, Captain?" Newkirk eventually asked, all traces of concern gone from his voice.

The officer took up the carafe that was on Hogan's desk and filled the glass which was on the bedside table, then held it out to the corporal.

Newkirk sat up, took the glass and swallowed the liquid as if he had the world's most refined tea in his hands. His leg was really hurting, but his former instructor's presence in the room intrigued him enough for him to forget about his injury for the moment.

Lackey waited for the pickpocket to put the glass down before asking him the burning question:

"Why did you lie to Colonel Hogan?"

"Lie?" Newkirk asked, not understanding.

He hardly remembered the last time he'd been awake, so he needed the captain to be a little more precise than that.

"Why didn't you tell him I was the one who shot the general?"

Peter wondered for a moment if he _had_ actually done that, and when the scene came back to his memory he winced at the stupidity of the question.

"What would that have changed?"

Surprised by the answer, Lackey remained motionless for a few seconds. _What would that have changed? _For Hogan or Newkirk, not much. But for him…

Hogan, who had probably been behind the door since Lackey had gone into his quarters, pushed it open to reveal his presence.

"Captain, it's time to go."

"All right. I'm coming."

Lackey watched the corporal's reaction. He was still proud in spite of the pain, and in his eyes burned a flame that neither captivity nor blows had ever been able to extinguish. And for the first time, Lackey saw Newkirk's true value, everything he had been hiding behind his disillusioned attitude, his sleight of hand and his measured insubordination. For the first time, he felt the respect for the man that he should have accorded him all along.

And for the first time since he'd become an officer, Captain Lackey of the Royal Air Force stood at attention in front of one of his subordinates, saluting him as one would salute a superior officer. If the gesture surprised Hogan, it completely bowled over his poor corporal.

Confused, Newkirk didn't quite know what to do, but as his captain wasn't budging, he finally did what he was waiting for and returned his salute.

At that, the captain turned and left the room without looking back. Hogan couldn't help but be concerned at Newkirk's troubled expression. He didn't understand the captain's gesture, he didn't understand how he merited such a show of respect; him, the good-for-nothing.

Hogan was going to have a long conversation with his corporal, because even though his physical wounds would heal, those in his heart were much deeper.

oOo

Two days later, the Gestapo had still not succeeded in getting their hands on a single Underground agent, and the major who had arrived with the reinforcements to join the search was beginning to get a little too interested in Klink. Fortunately, he had quickly come to the conclusion that such an imbecile could never have organized such a complicated thing as the death of a general and the destruction of such important documents. The Luftwaffe colonel did too much shaking in his boots as soon as he found himself in the presence of the death's head insignia to ever dare defy the Gestapo.

The major would probably have turned next to the prisoners if he and his troops hadn't been called back to Berlin to report to their superiors, which was a relief to poor Klink but also and most of all Hogan. He wouldn't have wanted to have to explain Newkirk's condition if the Gestapo had nosed around a bit too closely.

The fever had finally broken, but Newkirk was still too weak to get up, without even considering the wound on his leg which would likely keep him from walking for a while.

To avoid any suspicions from Klink, Hogan had asked him to lift the quarantine; the Englishman was no longer 'contagious'. Becoming more cooperative after the departure of the Gestapo, the commandant hadn't offered any argument and had even agreed that Newkirk should stay in bed until he was completely recovered. It fell to Schultz to ensure that the Englishman was still in the barracks and to report to Klink regarding the state of his recovery.

A job that perfectly suited the German sergeant. From the moment he had been assured by the prisoners that he wasn't going to catch any fatal illness by being around the pickpocket, his visits had become longer and longer.

The health of the prisoners, and of certain ones in particular, concerned him almost as much as that of his own children. But more than anything, the longer he stayed, the more chances he had to sample the dishes that Lebeau prepared in the hopes of improving his friend's appetite, because he wasn't eating enough to be able to replace the blood that he'd lost.

"I made these just for you, you could at least have one," Lebeau said indignantly while Newkirk once again refused what he had just prepared. "You won't get your strength back by drinking tea," the Frenchman grumbled. "Hey, Schultzie!"

The sergeant's hand discreetly approaching the plate of small cakes hadn't escaped him, and the cook pulled the plate away, moving it from his lap to under the night table that was on his left.

"You can always give them to Schultz." Newkirk was beginning to get tired, and he really wasn't in any mood to argue.

The German's eyes lit up, but the look that came from the cook was firm.

"I hope you understand all the hard work I did to find the ingredients I needed for these things. If not to please an Englishman without any taste, believe me, I never would have mixed beef fat with flour and eggs…"

Lebeau grimaced at the memory of the preparation, which made Newkirk smile in spite of himself.

"Not _things, _Louis; Yorkshire puddings," he said, exaggerating his own accent.

The Frenchman took advantage of his friend's open mouth to promptly stick in one of the cakes… which Newkirk was then obliged to chew.

"Well?" Lebeau and Schultz both asked after a few seconds.

"It's far from being as good as the ones I had back home," he responded sarcastically.

The Frenchman's face fell immediately, all traces of a smile evaporated. That had done it, he'd succeeded in hurting the cook's feelings. And there was only one thing he could do about that:

"But I'd like another one."

Another small cake appeared under his nose as if by magic and in spite of the fact that he really wasn't hungry, Newkirk ate it without complaint under the little Frenchman's satisfied gaze.

Once he'd finished the pudding, Lebeau didn't insist that he have still another, seeing quite clearly that his friend had had enough trouble finishing the last one. He held the plate out to Schultz, who dug in with delight, as both amused prisoners watched. Apparently English food didn't bother him in the least.

A bark too close by to have come from the kennel reached their ears, and Lebeau got to his feet immediately. He knew that bark. His certainty was confirmed when Jones opened the office door to let in a huge, almost entirely black German shepherd.

"He was in front of the door," the Englishman said, as if that were really necessary.

"What is that dog doing here?" Schultz asked, getting to his feet and backing up against the wall when the dog, noticing his presence, started to growl and bare his teeth.

"It's nothing, Wolfie, it's only Schultz," Lebeau said to reassure the German shepherd, on his knees and ruffling the dog's ears.

The dog whined with contentment and happily licked at his face, his tail wagging back and forth.

"That's a good dog! You waited for the Gestapo to go away before coming back home, right boy?"

"How did he get back into camp?"

Newkirk's question earned him Wolfgang's attention, and he jumped up on the bunk, nearly crushing the Englishman with all his weight to be in a better position to lick his face. The weight on his injured ribs wasn't particularly enjoyable, but Newkirk let the dog have his way, enjoying the warmth of the rough tongue against his neck.

"Good dog. It looks like without you I wouldn't be here. You've earned a reward," the British corporal congratulated him, completely forgetting that Schultz was there, but, as always, he heard nothing and he saw nothing.

Newkirk was trying to pick up a cake, but his movements were a bit limited by the additional thirty kilos resting on his chest. Lebeau came to his aid, setting the plate on the ground, gesturing to the furry hero that it was all for him. One last lick for the Englishman and the dog relieved him of the weight, jumping to the ground to devour the delicious puddings under Schultz's horrified gaze.

"Oh, no…"

"It's okay, Schultzie, I'll make you some strudel as an apology."

_Strudel_: the magic word. It was enough to make the guard forget the presence of an overly-friendly German shepherd in the barracks with the prisoners.

"I'll be back this evening," the German said, his eyes sparkling, as he edged along the wall to get out of the room without attracting the attention of the monster with such big teeth.

He passed Colonel Hogan on his way out and picked up his pace to be sure not to hear anything that he didn't want to hear. An ignorant sergeant is a happy sergeant!

"What's Wolfgang doing here?" the colonel asked, but he didn't wait for an answer before sharing with his men the news he had just received from London. "Captain Lackey arrived safely and the British secret service has been able to contact most of the Underground agents who were on the Gestapo's lists. They'll be reworking the entire network in case the Gestapo still has any more evidence from the interrogations."

"That's great news, _mon colonel_!" Lebeau exclaimed.

Newkirk agreed, but said nothing. He apparently hadn't quite finished with his demons, closing off as soon as the name of his former instructor was mentioned in his presence. Was he still afraid of a court martial? Because there was very little chance that Lackey would decide to report his attack, given everything that had happened in the interim.

"Lebeau, bring Wolf back to the kennel," he told the corporal, not before giving a friendly caress to the dog, who, having finished his plate, was pushing gently on the colonel's hand with his damp muzzle.

"_Oui, mon colonel._"

Newkirk waited until the Frenchman had gone out the door, leading his canine companion along by the collar. He was no idiot, the colonel wanted to have a moment alone with him and that certainly wasn't because he wanted to discuss the weather.

Once he had closed the door of his quarters, which also served to increase the Englishman's mounting apprehension, Hogan came to sit down next to him.

"How's the leg, Corporal?"

Newkirk hesitated. He was sure that the colonel wasn't there to ask after his health; he had a barracks full of men who were keeping him up to date on that, at practically every minute of the day or night.

"It'll be fine, as long as I don't move around too much, colonel," he replied anyway, with hesitation.

"Listen, Newkirk, I know that you don't want to talk about it, but it's for the best."

And then, it didn't take him very long…

"You shouldn't feel responsible," Hogan continued without being able to miss his corporal's discomfort. "Not about the mission, and not about student officer Mason."

Newkirk's gaze grew dark, and Hogan thought for a moment that maybe he was about to tell him to mind his own business. Instead of that, the Englishman asked him:

"What is it that you think you know?"

Hogan looked him square in the eye, tolerating Newkirk's cold gaze.

"Everything," he responded.

The answer was an honest one, and Newkirk knew it.

"You can't understand. All that's in the past. And it's my fault that Joshua finished up by killin' himself; I should been able to stop him and save a life that was really worth saving."

Hogan frowned.

"Do you really think your life is worth less than someone else's?"

Newkirk looked at him as if the question made no sense. Not only did he _think_ it, he was _convinced_ of it.

"Newkirk, even Captain Lackey finally realized your true value…"

The Englishman involuntarily bit down on his lip at the memory of that respectful salute that his captain had given him.

"I'm not sure I deserve it, guv'nor," he murmured, his eyes fixed on his clasped hands.

_How stubborn can you be? _Hogan fumed inwardly, getting briefly to his feet to lightly tap the Englishman in the back of the head. Good God, how could he get it into that thick head that he wasn't the cowardly nothing he thought he was? Newkirk looked at him with surprise, but said nothing.

"If Carter, Lebeau, Kinch or I were accused of a crime and all the evidence pointed to us, what would you do?" Hogan asked.

"I'd do anything I could to help you, guv'nor!" the Englishman stressed. "Even dig a tunnel underneath the prison with me fingernails!"

His reaction made Hogan smile. There, he had found his corporal again.

"You'd protect us without worrying about the evidence, like for young Mason."

Newkirk nodded slowly, the mention of the young soldier's name making him feel like someone had punched him right in the heart.

"Because we're supposed to be a family, right?"

It was Hogan's turn to nod and to add:

"Only everybody wouldn't have done the same thing. Did the other men in your unit cover for you when Lackey accused you of that theft?"

He already knew the answer; Lackey had told him enough. Obviously, without a confession and without the money, no trial had been possible, and after his punishment Newkirk had been unwillingly returned to his unit. He knew that the captain had let his men come after Newkirk, already weakened by his incarceration, until he cracked and requested a transfer.

"I can't really blame them," Newkirk answered, unconsciously rubbing his chest at the memory of the blows, reliving the pain of the bruises that covered him.

"Newkirk," Hogan said, seizing the corporal's right hand to prevent him from hurting himself any further. "You would have protected any one of those men. You were more loyal than any of them could ever be, and yes, that makes you the better man."

As Newkirk didn't react, Hogan gently squeezed his shoulder and got to his feet, hoping that his words would find their way into the Englishman's heart and that they would bring a little peace to his tormented soul.

"Y'know, Colonel…"

Hogan, about to leave, turned around to listen.

"The hardest part wasn't the box… or the beatings… I've survived a lot worse. No, the hardest thing was thinking I'd found my place, and then to realize that it was all a lie and that in the end, everyone is always alone."

The Englishman had said it in a detached tone, almost cold, but Hogan knew that it had been due to the fact that it was so hard to get the words out. He had known Newkirk a long time and he knew that he dreaded solitude more than anything else, because if Man was a social animal, Newkirk certainly was the most social of all.

Paradoxically, it was to avoid finding himself alone that he had such fear of forming any ties.

He only had to think again of the time that he had arrived at the stalag and the first glimpse he'd had of the man who would become such a key member of his organization. _A wolf in the fold, _that was the first thing he had thought when he'd encountered that Englishman who seemed at first glance to be likely to cause him nothing but trouble.

It hadn't taken him long to realize his mistake. Newkirk wasn't a wolf in a fold, but a wolf in a cage, alone and terrified, that only a very few prisoners had been able to tame. Lebeau had been one of them, and it was in observing the strong friendship that existed between the only Frenchman in the camp and the pickpocket that Hogan had made his decision: he too would tame the wolf.

Hogan watched his corporal for a moment but said nothing about the Englishman's confessions, contenting himself to remark before leaving the room:

"If you need anything, we're all here."

_All here._

Newkirk smiled and settled under the covers. For the first time in days, he felt really good.

_You're not alone._

Comforted by that idea and by the faraway noise that was the life of the barracks, Newkirk soon fell asleep. He wasn't afraid of anything. His family was watching over him.

**To be continued (for one last time). **

**And maybe, one day, soon or not, I will try to write a story about Newkirk when he was still the Stalag 13 bad wolf ;) **


	18. Chapter 18 : Epilogue

**Here is the very end of this journey I was truly happy to share it with you and hope that you liked read Wolf Trap as much as I liked write it. **

**Thank you for all the reviews and thanks again to SimoneSez who did an excellent job with the translation. **

**For the epilogue, some Newkirk specials tricks! Like we all love ^^**

**Epilogue**

The calm of the following days was particularly appreciated by Hogan and his men. London hadn't sent them any more news since the word of Lackey's arrival in England, which wasn't so bad; leaving the camp to complete any missions would be nearly impossible since the work of reconstructing the cooler wasn't yet finished.

The prisoners could enjoy their free time to rest, and also to enjoy the spectacle that the German guards offered, practically killing themselves in their struggle to finish the new building as quickly as possible. Klink had tried to use the prisoners, but Hogan had been categorically opposed to the idea. After all, the Geneva Convention couldn't have been more clear on the subject, prisoners of war couldn't be forced to work.

The downtime had permitted Newkirk to get his strength back quickly, and the Englishman being who he was, he couldn't stay put any longer, complaining to anyone who would listen that he couldn't stand staying in bed any longer with nothing to do. Hogan had exercised his authority to force him to rest, but the corporal's cooperation had only lasted a few hours… he had found his pickpocket in the main barracks, too busy cleaning his companions out at poker to realize the colonel was there.

A few warnings later, Newkirk was back in the officer's quarters counting the minutes that passed slowly, very slowly. And that was in spite of the frequent visits from his friends. Not to be able to move around was agony for the Englishman, much worse than the pain his injured leg was causing him whenever he set his foot on the ground.

Hogan had not yet found a way to explain his corporal's limp to Klink. Newkirk had claimed that he could conceal the pain during roll call, but the simple act of putting on his left boot was veritable torture, and Hogan had dismissed the idea.

In the end, it wasn't he who found the solution to the problem.

oOo

The American colonel was dozing peacefully on the bench outside Barracks 2 when a shout from inside tore him rudely from his daydreams. He ran inside. All the men were enjoying the sunshine except Newkirk of course, and Carter who was supposed to be watching to ensure that he didn't get out of bed. Carter's exclamation couldn't signify anything good…

And yet, when he pushed the door open, he found nothing but an astonished American sergeant and a English corporal who couldn't seem to stop laughing. Carter was standing facing Newkirk who was sitting on his mattress, not lying down as he was supposed to be, laughing until he cried at the younger man's expression.

"What happened in here?" he asked, directing the question at Newkirk.

Not impressed by his superior's annoyed tone, the Englishman gave a big smile and carefully lifted the left leg of his pants, exposing an ankle that was horribly swollen, and of an unhealthy color that clearly indicated a bad sprain.

Hogan didn't have any idea how such an injury could amuse the pickpocket to that degree, and hesitated between getting angry right away or worrying first about the severity of the sprain. But before he could say anything, his gaze rested on the small bag that rested next to Newkirk's bunk, and he couldn't help smiling in turn.

"I didn't have anythin' else to do, guv'nor. It took me a while, but I'm pretty proud of the result," Newkirk bragged.

The small, open bag showed its contents. Eye shadow, pencils of different colors, lipstick… it was the makeup kit the Englishman used to disguise himself when he was out on a mission.

"Unbelievable," Hogan sighed, admiring the realism of the effort. You really had to look closely to realize that the ankle wasn't really swollen and that the bruise was simply the result of a skillful mix of colors…

"Newkirk, you're a genius."

oOo

That evening, Newkirk showed up for roll call for the first time in days, supported by Kinch and balancing on his right leg. An appearance that was not at all on the subtle side.

It was natural that Colonel Klink would approach him right away when he arrived to receive Schultz's report.

"Newkirk, I'm glad to see you're feeling better, but… what happened to you?"

The German's sincerely concerned tone went right to the Englishman's heart, and it was with equal sincerity that he answered:

"My legs are still a bit weak and I tripped getting up. Here, have a look."

At that, he lifted the leg of his pants, just enough to show his 'sprain' and not enough to reveal the bandages that covered his real wound. The darkness of the evening helped; Klink saw just enough, and his eyes widened in horror to imagine the corporal's pain.

"My God, Newkirk, you need to take care of that!"

"Oh, Newkirk…" Schultz immediately took pity on him. The poor fellow had already suffered enough over the past several days; he didn't need this on top of it.

Hogan chose that moment to intervene, taking Kinch's place to support his fraudster corporal.

"Don't worry, commandant, Sergeant Wilson will take care of it," he affirmed before leading Newkirk back inside the barracks, without being able to completely erase his smile. It was definitely getting easier and easier to dupe Klink.

They only had to get a bandage on Newkirk's ankle and the job was done! The Englishman could let his leg heal without any Germans asking questions over the next few weeks. And since it was all over, Hogan didn't doubt Newkirk would be able to walk again without the risk of reopening the wound and, most of all, without pain.

Hogan helped his corporal sit down at the table. Asking him to go back and rest when he had just regained his freedom of movement would probably not have been welcomed by the Englishman…

An Englishman who, having received the congratulations of the other prisoners, couldn't resist picking up the deck of cards that was in front of him to take out three that he placed face-down on the table.

"Two jacks, one queen! One queen, two jacks, find the queen!"

The prisoners immediately assembled around the table, fascinated by the game.

"Here," Carter said, pointing at one of the cards.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"I think it's this one," said Jones, pointing at a different one.

With one sweep of his hand, Newkirk turned over the cards. The queen hadn't been found. He shuffled the cards again under the watchful eye of his companions and waited for another one of them to have a go. Once, twice, three times, and the queen of hearts was never picked out, to the great frustration of the prisoners.

"This isn't right; there must be a trick," Lebeau complained after his fourth unsuccessful attempt.

Before Newkirk could turn the three cards over again, Hogan held his wrist to stop him. Newkirk looked at him curiously but let him do it, and it was under the captivated eyes of the prisoners that the colonel turned over the first card. The queen of hearts.

Hogan looked at the card, perplexed; he had really thought it had been taken out of the game. A glance at the proud smile and sparkling eyes of the Englishman convinced him to turn over the other two cards. The result raised a few murmurs of disbelief and admiration from the group.

Three queens of hearts!

"Newkirk…" Hogan sighed, shaking his head hopelessly, smiling to have been so easily fooled.

Obviously, the British corporal hadn't yet finished surprising him.

**THE END**


End file.
